This is a satirical piece — no forks were harmed in the making of this article.

Dear Diary, 

I felt a little self-conscious today. People kept picking me up, intensely inspecting me, then putting me back as to say I’m not good enough. If I wanted to be treated like that, I would have stayed with my third husband, who — lucky for me — relocated to the Perch. I looked at my reflection in one of the spoons, and to my dismay, my tines were all over the place. No wonder no one wanted to take me to breakfast. 

It was the peak of the breakfast rush by the time I finished straightening my tines, thanks to some help from my favorite knife. But then, disaster struck. 

Although the dry heaving leading up to the sneeze warned me, nothing could have prepared me for the big boogey that came my way. “Ah, Ah CHOO” — like a green shooting star, it flew across the Eatery sky, but instead of disappearing into the abyss, it struck me on my silvery side. 

And to make matters worse, the booger-launcher picked me up — although, after an incident like that, she should treat me to breakfast. From what I could gather between mucus-filled coughs, there’s this “First-Year Flu” epidemic going around her floor. She’s on day 10 of a cough that prompted her roommate to buy a hazmat suit for protection. I couldn’t stop wondering if this year’s flu shot has a strand of the First-Year Flu, and if so, I might need to get one. 

The next thing I knew, it was lunchtime. To my initial horror, I heard someone exclaim, “Dude, last week after Taco Tuesday, the ninth-floor cans were out for two days,” as they walked past me. Good thing it’s Monday. 

Although the toilets must have gone through hell to get those days off, I’m so glad they were able to have some fun. They’ve been doing their job for the past 10 years with no paid time off — they deserve to relax and take a break from the crap. 

Not long after, I felt a cloud descend over me when salty water drops began to slide down my handle. One of those planets must be in retrograde — we have a crier in the cafeteria.

It was a little nerve-racking being on a one-on-one date, especially at such a large table and with someone in a sensitive state. There’s no conversation that can distract from my flaws. I’m not as young and shiny as I once was — I have scars and washer marks. I’ve seen some things. I became fearful that she would replace me with a newer style after a couple of bites. 

I soon realized it’s not Mercury causing the tears, but midterm season — she had other important matters on her mind. More tears started spouting out of her ducts when she called and told her mom how much she studied for the bio exam, yet she still felt like she answered every question wrong. After experiencing the shower of tears, I have so much sympathy for the spoons of soup days. I don’t like being this wet. 

I went back through the wash, which made me realize I no longer have a work-life balance. I used to think about quitting — just falling to the floor and hoping I ended up in recycling. Yet, back in 2020, when the pandemic struck and a plastic imposter replaced me, I found out I missed coming to work every day. Back then, I would have given anything to feel tired from a long day of work — so now I try to start every shift with a smile, no matter how tired I am. 

There I was, minding my own business, then suddenly, a hand grabbed me, elevated me into the air and whisked me away, past the turnstiles. I always wanted to get out and travel, but I’ve only heard about the world from inside Towers. 

All of a sudden, I heard the person who grabbed me say to a little creature with eyes as wide as his head and a backpack heavier than him, “Give me a meal swipe, or I’ll tell them you stole this fork.” Faster than the rush on Waffle Wednesday, I was whisked back to Towers and given a tour of all the stations. I couldn’t help but wonder, was I complicit in my own kidnapping? 

I must have gone through the food at every station during that dinner — even ice cream, a new one for me, and that’s saying something, since I’ve been around for so many semesters. I couldn’t wait to take a nice shower, apply a fork mask and go to sleep in my slot. But as the plates headed to the dish return for the evening, I stayed held by a hand. Something fishy was happening — and it wasn’t the tilapia served at dinner. 

I turned my spokes inward, hoping it was part of a nightmare. I dreamed of traveling, but only of my own volition — I didn’t want to be forknapped! The light of day soon disappeared. “Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore,” I thought as I tried to make myself comfortable in a pocket of a three-year-old Jansport backpack. 

With my sight gone, my sense of smell must have improved. I could pick out the aromas of a three-day-old banana and sweaty socks swirling in the stiff air — and there was also a familiar third smell that I could not figure out for the life of me. Oh yes — a clump of cheese from Market pizza. 

You hear about these things — forks getting taken — and you never think it will happen to you. But this is one fork’s story, my story, my warning — look out for one another, and stay safe out there. 

Talia Spillerman writes about anything and everything. Write to her at [email protected]