To Vincenzo (from his spork),
I mean, honestly I’m a bit ticked off. I mean, I thought we had something. I thought you became a man when you held me in your hand. Now you’ve gone to camp and where did that leave me? In the bottom of your grimy backpack next to a smooshed Skittle and a piece of math homework you never turned in. That’s cold, man, that’s cold. Your mom rescued me and I know she meant well, but she put me in the fork drawer. The fork drawer! They wouldn’t have me. She put me in the spoon drawer. They wanted nothing to do with me. At least she knew enough not to put me in with the knives.
I could be at camp right now, tucking into a bowlful of stew or twirling my first sporkful of spaghetti. Instead I am here on the kitchen counter, naked and alone, staring up at the ceiling and contemplating the meaning of my short, sad, loveless life.
Anyway, hope you’re having fun at camp, eating soup and ice cream with your hands. Unless gasp—you’re not cheating on me, are you? With forks and spoons? Perish the thought!
I love you anyway. Sporkfully yours,
You know, if you squint a little bit, you can almost imagine the ceiling is a giant plate of mashed potatoes.