Guess The Item

I don’t like it when those greasy handed bastards suffocate me with their stressed-out-of-my-first-real-client-meeting hands. Don’t they know where I am from! Ya ya good, look at me for a split second and then shove in your pocket with your forsaken sharp car keys (do you even know who I belong to?) Is it ok for me to be scared? From the destination I finally rest in? Will I be in a comfortable quite house, where no child will take me, brake my back and shower me with saliva as he/she/it tries to digest pieces of me before mom comes to take me out of that retched mouth? Or will I end up in the garbage with all the other things that actually belong there. God I miss my friends, my ever so perfectly, colorful, uniform not-so-boring presentation of an ever-so-boring world. Take me back, to that voice I hear, muffled surely, but still there. I forgive you Giorgina Rollete for abandoning me, giving me away to this freak, who for some reason can’t stop fidgeting. Stop it!