I ate a lollipop the other day. After that, it came alive, and asked me if I was happy. I said, “No, I live inside my head everyday, and nothing feels right. What should I do to be happy?”
He said to talk to the pencil. So I picked up a pencil and talked to it, and it whispered in my ear things to do, like maybe try writing another story, or something like that, and if I would, pretty please, sharpen it more often, but I got sick of its mumbling, so I put it back down.
Then I thought to myself, what else should I do, who should I go for advice to? The clock seemed a sensible creature. I spoke to it, and it said, “The best way to find romance, is to put yourself in love’s way.” I punched the clock, and it made the glass crack, because I’d been searching all my life, and I still hadn’t found anything else, no handsome boys had come knocking on my door, so why don’t you shut the fuck up, clock-face.
Then I tried to eat something else, but the food started talking to me, too, and it said I needed to lose weight, the macaroni and cheese spoke to me, it told me to lose weight, I was beginning to develop a paunch, and how unsightly that was, for a lovely, little lady like myself. So I ate the macaroni—it screamed as it died in my mouth—and licked up all the cheese, and that was the end of that.
Every day, for that entire day, objects spoke to me: my hairbrush told me my black hair was too flat, and needed to be made into a more attractive cut, banknotes whispered of the riches they hoped I would make one day so I could plant trees and help starving children and do all the good I wanted to do in the world, and I threw the hairbrush into the sink and cut the banknotes up, letting it float like confetti onto the floor.
I went up to the old attic. I was alone, and scared. There was a skipping rope. There really was. I thought it was a snake at first, I was so scared, but there it was, lying in the shadows, a skipping rope. It spoke to me, in a springy sort of voice, about my childhood, and my father, and all the good old days, and I wished I could have cuddled it up. But there is something that nostalgia that stinks of old socks, so I knotted the skipping rope up, and put it in one of the old boxes.
Then I went back downstairs, and took a bath. The bath was a good bath. It had lots of bubbles in it. For just a little while, it was quiet in the bath, but then the water started mumbling to me, about all the soap suds contaminating it, and I had to pull the plug out, watching as the water all gurgled away.
I was very scared by this point. I thought I was going insane. Maybe I was. After all, in a normal world, objects do not speak to you. So I thought to myself, “Where can I go where nothing will speak to me?” Not the bedroom. Not the kitchen. Not the bathroom, or the living room; even the sofas and couches were speaking to me, calling me a lazy shit, hating on me for dropping cereal all over into its cracks and crevices that time I decided to eat the cornflakes out of the box. So I went outside, into the garden.
The garden spoke to me, but it was just unintelligible noises, so it didn’t matter. And then I looked up at the sky, and the moon was very big, and very bright, like a big, fat cheese I could maybe eat, and I thought, I should talk to the moon. So I poured my heart out to the moon, telling it how lonely I was, how I wish I could have someone to put their shoulders around me, smelling not of my mum or my sibling but a man, and I thought maybe, just maybe, I could maybe get my shit together enough to fulfil my dreams of becoming a full-time artist, and as I thought this, the moon seemed to smile down at me, as if to say, “Don’t worry, everything will be fine.”
When I went back inside, everything was quiet. Nothing was saying anything anymore. I went to bed, and the last thing I heard, before I went to sleep, was the clock. It said “Fuck you”, and then was silent.