autobiography Blog

one dish too many

The other night I broke another mug while washing the dishes. I only seem to break the mugs I like. It may seem like a minor tragedy, but I’m sick of its recurring nature. How much longer until I only have terrible, misshapen mugs? What will my morning routine look like when I open the cupboard only to see mugs staring balefully out at me, hoping I won’t use them for fear of being “washed” into the garbage can? I feel like an incompetent mafia hit man. I only hit the wrong targets.

What angers me most about this situation is the fact that a solution already exists. It’s called a dishwasher. Dishwashers are sanitary, automatic and I happen to enjoy the sound they make while they’re cleaning my dirty dishes. It’s a win-win. But as I am merely a cartoonist/blogger (euphemisms for poor/wretched), I have no such electric device in my kitchen. I only have a big sink and a faucet that throws as much water on me as it does the dishes I’m cleaning.

I mourn the passage of a good mug today. The fact that, somewhere out there, a dishwasher would have had room for it makes the grief even harder to bear.

Rest in peace, tall mug. You will be missed.

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