Long Break Up Narrative

I sit at an angle, I have for a while now, it’s this bad hip so to speak. If you bumped me or the table I sit upon, you’s find that I wobble as much as a weeble, but I cannot insure you that I won’t fall down. You see, often I do, fall that is. I have dents, scratches, ink smudges, and scuffs although they’re not all war scars or anything I’m particularly proud of. I know I look silver, but I also duly reflect my surroundings in vertical streaks across my body. Hidden beneath me is a dent formed from the inside created by my fluctuating weight. Or possibly from water pressure. I think. I’m told. I’m really not sure. At my mouth I nearly always have a plug screwed in to keep myself contained. However, this creates ridges and a lip at my opening where a black, plastic plug sits with bumps for better gripping. I have a little whole for a ring, but my owner prefers that I wear one around the whole meant for fingers and hands. The ring that sealed the deal is large, gaudy, and covered with keys and keychains. I don’t like wearing it, but it’s usually only while we’re traveling and at least they know where to find their

My owner retrieved me from the cupboard one day, two years ago, filled me up, and we were off. I found that it was early August by the weather and for 5 days a week, I routinely sat in the shadows of a high school football stadium for hours and hours while I watched my owner and their friends stand, march, move, and play across the field with musical instruments in hand. After a few weeks, my owner began to put me in a different bag, one with books and binders and books with spiral binding. It was darker and cooler than the bag previously. We would still often go out into the stadium. Sometimes, often at nights, my owner would don a uniform of bright red and black and I could see them from the stands. It was a nice few weeks, but I felt unappreciated by my owner, as though I was unwanted, insignificant, and a source of shame for