I realized this week what a hatred I have for uncooperative inanimate objects. Most of my hate stems from their inability to predict what I want them to do. I think if we should invent “smart” versions of all things inanimate. Just like phones, there are phones, and then there are smart phones. We know that being a smart inanimate object only means it does more. Oxymoron….inanimate object…does more.
Mainly, the “smart” part depends on who’s hand it’s in. There are many smart phones in the hands of morons making them as smart as a spaghetti noodle(also pronounced “spaghatta nadle”). A moron with a smart phone is like a Volswagen with a Mercedes hood ornimate.
My earliest memory of a spat with a non-smart inanimate object was when I was eight or nine years old. My mom told me to make my bed. I cleared all the covers off the bed and picked up the sheet to apply the first layer. I stood at the foot of the bed, threw the sheet long ways up toward the top of the bed holding the end. I then held a corner in my right hand and a corner in my left hand and began doing what I had seen my mom do a thousand times. I was jerking both arms up and down whipping the sheet toward the top of the bed with hopes that it would flatten out and lie perfectly across the bed. Instead it kept floating to the righ, floating to the left, bending underneath. I made me so damn mad I stuck the sheet in my mouth and was trying to rip it apart. My mom walked in and with a very confused look on her face asked “what are you doing?”.
If we had smart sheets, sheets that had little weights in each corner and a few down the seems, sheets would operate more perfectly. But smartifying everything would not solve all my problems with inanimate objects. I still have to deal with them everyday and they mostly don’t do exactly what I want them to do.
But the thing I like about hating inanimate objects is that they don’t talk back and tell on you if you beat them for not working right. But like the sheets, there are other ways to get found out. Again when I was eight…you see a pattern developing I know…I had a radio that mostly worked but you had to slap it around a little to get the reception right. Believe it or not, slapping the side of a tv or radio was accepted as “fine tuning” in my younger years. You put the dial on channel thirteen and if the reception wasn’t perfect you slapped the top and sides until the picture and/or sound was a little better. Well, this radio decided it would receive whatever the hell signal it felt like receiving whether I slapped it around or not. It was raining outside and I was stuck in my room and I just wanted to listen to the stinkin’ radio. It refused to cooperate. I’m not making excuses but we know that severe abuse problems always start out with a few slaps and the next thing you know…I stomped it to death in a fit of anger. I know, I know, I was crazy! I didn’t realize what I was doing. I was greatly relieved but then I was faced with disposing of the crushed radio. I thought about it then just threw it in the garbage where my mom quickly found it. I didn’t get in trouble but I remember my mom and step-dad sitting there looking at me like I was demon possessed. I wasn’t. I just wanted a radio to act like a radio.
So now I’m fifty. I’m thinking about this because I have a shelf in the top of my closet where I throw my lounging clothes: pajamas, shorts, and t-shirts. They go up there because I am not going to fold them. It seems that no matter how careful I am, when I pull a piece of clothing down another piece will fall on the ground. I am usually tired so this tempts my anger in ways I can’t describe. I’m fifty, I don’t have to answer to anybody…these clothes don’t realize the possible reciprocation for their actions. I mean I could walk out in the driveway, make a pile and burn every one of them.
This has been going on for five years since we moved into this house. Today….I rearranged my closet. I’m a moron….but I still hate inanimate objects.