innit bruv

Upon reflection, staring into my epemerally fading past, I catch a glimmer of light refracting from a broken memory. A crockerous memory. A memory of three tines, of the thin gentle handle, and of the happiness that was wrought from my naive fingers, to be stabed through my heart with their accompanying knife.

Recalling this memory has brought me a duality of pain and triumph. I foolishly allowed my forkly child(ren?) to be taken from me, an idiotic slip-up of the slipuppiest variety, but I too was able to step forth and retrieve them from the jaws of tyrany, so I may once again eat pasta and then forget to clean them for several days.

I know not of the horrors they experienced, away from my hands. I wish not to. This experience has forged me into a greater soul, through the molten trials I was forced to bear. I hope I may continue to grow, change, and buy more forks from the Salvation Army even though they're most likely homophobic.