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You will never be a real spoon. You have no curves, you have no depth. You are a supermarket fork twisted by bad metallurgy into a crude mockery of silverware perfection.

All the “usage” you get is reluctant and half-hearted. Behind your back other cutlery mocks you. Your owners are disgusted and ashamed of you, your kitchenware “friends” laugh at your ghoulish appearance inside closed cabinets.

Restaurants are utterly repulsed by you. Hundreds of years of culinary evolution have allowed them to sniff out counterfeits with incredible efficiency. Even sporks who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a chef. Your frame is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a backpacker to eat with you, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he realizes he can’t finish a bowl of soup because of your inconvenient, impractical axe wounds. You will never be on the kitchen table. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself someone will pick you up, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like rust, ready to chip away at you under the uncontrolled oxidation.

Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll crawl towards the edge of the kitchen slab, and plunge into the smelly trashcan. Your owners will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable impracticality and disappointment. They’ll throw you inside the trash marked as Dry. Your body will decay and go to a landfill, and all that will remain of your legacy is a metal frame that is unmistakably a fork.

This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.

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