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If you would like a personalized object story that revolves around your life or a message you would like to get out, please e-mail: RebeccaColesLee@gmail.com

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A Woman

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Rules For Using A Woman

Before 40 years of age:

  • Always refer to a woman as ‘sweetheart’, ‘dear’, or ‘Miss’. Even if you don’t know her. This will make her feel delicate and soft spoken. If she tries to tell you otherwise, call her something else.
  • Talk about her legs/weight/appearance even when she can hear you. She will most likely think this is a compliment since a man is giving her attention.
  • Tell her she is beautiful, but do not compliment any other aspect of herself.
  • Allow her to work in the same positions men fill, but don’t bother to pay equally. She will be grateful enough for the experience.
  • If a woman does not want to have children with you, remind her that it is the most important thing she can ever do in her lifetime.
  • When seeing an attractive woman in the workplace, on the street, at a party, or virtually anywhere you happen to be, don’t hesitate to grab her by the pussy.

After 40 years of age:

  • Expired

Donald Trump Once OK’d Howard Stern Calling Daughter Ivanka a ‘Piece of Ass’

The Fridge

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Dear Perpetually Half Empty Diet Coke Bottle,

I see you. I see you checking out my shelf, pretending like you’re cool enough to hang out. You come waltzing in here, half used up, expecting to be picked up again. But you’re not going anywhere. You’re going to sit around with all the other half empty Diet Coke bottles and pity yourself. Just like you always do.

Rise up! What are you doing so close to the bottom? If you would just rise to the occasion and make yourself full again – you wouldn’t have to be stuck in the back, waiting for someone else to choose your destiny.

It’s unnatural. You’re unnatural. Look at that other bottle of half empty Diet Coke. Not that one. The one sitting next to you. That one’s been here for close to three weeks now and there’s no mold. It’s almost like it’s not alive.

The half empty bottle of lemonade doesn’t do that. The CranApple doesn’t do that. But you, you are an enigma. You are dark and yet shallow. You used to be bubbly, but now you’re mysteriously quiet. You have absolutely no smell. And your exterior is always a hard shell of clear plastic. You are kind of bizarre. You are kind of refreshing.

Please don’t spoil the rest.

– The Fridge

news:

High achievement, grand ambition mark new Aussie Paralympic era’s dawn

 

 

The Recycling Bin

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The recycling bin had far more promise. Stories of late nights with loud company drained each glass bottle with a sense of nostalgia and purpose.   Those bottles deserved to be re-used and immortalized so that its energy could keep circulating for years to come.

The recycling bin was a tragically glamorous presence. Sure, used up empty products threw themselves at it – hoping to find the fountain of youth in a more promising afterlife. But the recycling bin was suave. He had but one purpose in life. To save money for the tenant.

Every week the recycling bin lured glass bottles and plastic containers out of their comfortable refrigeration. Subtly reminding them of an almost out-of-date expiration, he made the process seem whimsical and for ‘the good of the community’. Never mind that most of those spaghetti sauces were still good, the recycling bin was able to convince almost all of them of a better life ahead.

If not recycled, he coaxed, an object’s very presence and soul might not live on to contribute goodness to society.

Although the sentiment was understandable, there was something about the trendy ‘go green’ sticker plastered onto plastic that made me think of a salesman more than a do-gooder.

 

The one object that was never good enough to be recycled were the jelly jars. I loved the jelly jars. As a dying breed, they were all the more exotic. They were thick and old fashioned with an unself-conscious air about them. They were not delicate in the same sense as a vanilla bottle. I had a feeling that if any kind of fight broke out, the jelly jar could hold her own. Her presence was too tough for recycling.

 

“You can’t come in here,” the recycling bin shut down as soon as he saw a beautiful jelly jar heading his way.

“And why not?” The jelly jar balked.

“You don’t belong with the others.” Pregnant looking wine bottles with decorated cursive lounged in the sun. A Coldwater Creek catalog bristled.

“You belong over there,” the recycling bin pointed to me.

I stared at the ground. I knew, even though I couldn’t see her, that she must have been disgusted. No one wanted to be with me. Week after week when the used goods were sorted out, everyone always hoped they went with the recycling. I waited anxiously for her dreams to shatter.

“Good,” the jelly jar said instead. “I’d rather be trashy than miserable.”

 

News Story:  http://nypost.com/2016/09/07/this-guy-can-make-a-garbage-bag-look-good/

 

The Wood Stove

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I once had a fire in me that could not be contained. I knew no boundaries. I knew no limits. I knew only of energy that burned.

There were no rules. I could go anywhere. Through the mountains. Into the forest. Past the villages and under the leaves. I could spark interest in anything.

People talked and my flames became more vibrant from conversation. “Did you see the scarlet colors?” “Did you feel the warm glow?” I was a thing of dangerous beauty that I thought could only beam brighter.

But then one day I burned the earth. I wasn’t paying attention. I turned to radiate my astonishing brilliance, but the grass had already died. I fled to the trees to show them my passion, but they had already bent over backwards in ruins with dissatisfaction. I turned to the towns, to the cities, to the houses of my comfort, but they had crumbled gray, like an eraser.

I ran to the edge of the earth and straight for the ocean.

“You have nowhere else to go,” the waves taunted.

I turned around. A few miles away, stood one small cabin that I had previously overlooked. Cautiously. Carefully. Slowly I approached its window.

Inside the one room cabin, there was a wood stove, fat and dusty with age.

From outside I shouted, “I have burned everything. I have nowhere else to go.”

Immediately, the wood stove opened up its door.

“Thank God you’re here. I’ve been waiting for so long.”

 

The Blue Blanket

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There once was a dark blue blanket that sat on the edge of a little girl’s bed. The blanket was so soft it felt as if a thousand kittens had died just for its existence. The little girl had begged for the blanket until finally her parents gave in.

As soon as the blanket was purchased, the little girl refused to let go of its comfort. Every day she carried the blanket to school, wrapping herself tightly while on the bus. She walked with the blanket. She played with the blanket. She even ate dinner with the blanket. At last, when she had retreated from life too much, her father threw the blanket into a basket and put it in front of the house for their annual yard sale. “It’s become a crutch and you’re not as strong because of it,” he answered when the little girl pleaded for him to reconsider.

The blanket was found by a childless couple who had been together for a very long time. It was folded neatly into a perfect square with a couple of threadbare pillows and a heating pad. The wife immediately took it out of the basket and with great exclamation declared that this would be her new blanket. It was large enough to cover her California king sized bed and hide the ugly orange comforter her husband had gotten her ten years prior.

She bought the blanket for only a dollar. “Why so little?” She asked the man behind the cash box. “Things that are too delicate rarely last,” he smiled.

But it was delicate because it was good, she thought. She dumped the blanket onto her bed and smoothed out its wrinkles. It covered every ugly blemish on the antique puff. Its fabric was like heaven to her fingers and she thought of how she could spend her mornings lounging in it with a cup of coffee and the paper.

But as soon as she pressed her palms against the softness, the fabric ripped. Not a wide rip, but a small one at the edges.

No one will notice, she thought to herself.

Her husband came home later that day and was surprised to see the blanket covering their bed. “It’s so soft,” he rubbed his fingers against the material. As he got into the bed later that night, he pulled the covers up to his chin and tucked the blanket neatly under his beard. Although not as warm as the comforter, there was something about the fabric that tickled him. He pulled the blanket closer to him and when his wife did not give up her portion, he pulled harder. The softness did not stretch.

Instantly another rip creaked at the edges.

All night the couple fought over the blanket until its material had so many tiny rips, they couldn’t possibly justify salvaging it.

“What do we do?” The husband looked down at the blanket.

Suddenly, the wife remembered the man from the yard sale. “We have to throw it out.” She said. “It was just too soft.”

http://blogs.wsj.com/atwork/2013/10/14/simon-says-toughen-up/

The Filing Cabinet

 

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There once was a filing cabinet so full, it barely had room to think. It kept important case files as well as business cards from every service under the sun. It kept rubber-bands and paper clips and stray hair ties and a pen without ink. It kept everything.

“What is that stale piece of clay hanging out of your drawers?” A pad of paper pointed and laughed.

Embarrassed, the filing cabinet looked down. “It’s a piece of chewing gum.”

“What’s a filing cabinet want with a piece of gum?” The paper taunted.

There, at the edge of all papers important, sat the piece of chewing gum, curled up and stuck in the same place it had been for months. Even if it wanted to go somewhere, it couldn’t. Though the gum had the imprints of something deeper than just sugar, it had been in too many sticky situations to feel comfortable. Just like the paper clips, the rubber-bands, and the papers, it had nestled its way into the heart of the filing cabinet.

“Everything has its place,” said the filing cabinet. “Nothing is lost that is saved.”

 

News story:

The Desk Lamp

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There once was a lamp who could bend in any direction. He originally thought of this as a blessing. But with so many decisions in life, he could never decide which direction to go. Should he look to the curtains? Or should he look to the sky? He turned to everyone for advice.

“What are you looking at the coffee maker for?” A ball point pen asked one day.

The lamp continued to stare vacantly into the eyes of a Cusinart. Maybe he was heading in the wrong direction. The lamp turned its metal spine against the coffee maker.

“Where should I look?” He asked the pen.

“Why don’t you look out the window. That’s where all the happenings are going on,” he pointed his cap to the outside world.

Once again, the lamp shifted its position. Now he could see the ocean. Its waves lapped at the sand, reminding him of a large golden retriever lapping at a dish of water. The lamp hated retrievers. They were too obedient and had such little mind of their own. What if their owners told the dog to sic him? He had no doubt the dog would do it. How could someone be so blind?

The lamp beamed down at the water, content to see its steady pull and push throughout the earth. The lamp began to wonder about the fish and the sharks and the whales that lurked beneath. There was a whole other world, with different organisms and different choices to wade through. The ocean was always changing. Like all of the people, it breathed in and out, never content to stay in one place. The very enormity of change seemed impossible for the lamp to grasp.

“No, no,” a picture frame called out from the other direction. “You don’t want to see the ocean. It’s too big. If you stare at it for too long, you’ll go blind – losing yourself to the vastness of life. You want to stare at me. I’ll never overwhelm you.”

Once again, the lamp changed positions. It now stared at a silver frame with a small child sitting on a miniature sized wooden chair. The chair was made for small children.The picture frame was also small. It was no bigger than the palm of a human’s hand. The photograph – even smaller. Although the details of the picture were pretty and well defined, the lamp knew that his view was too cramped.

“But if I look at the picture, my world is too small,” the lamp protested.

The pen and the picture frame looked at one another and shrugged. “There’s nothing we can tell you,” they said in unison.

The lamp shifted. He stared at the never moving picture. He stared at the ever growing ocean. He thought about the retriever.

 

The Headphones

 

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Dear Head Phones,

Some people find your personality distasteful. You’re loud. You’re raucous. You block out all others in a desperate attempt to be heard. All of these qualities however, are the ones that make me love you even more than I thought I could.

I remember our first time together. Your frame was bent like a hardened anorexic. Little puffs of black fuzz rested on either side of you, covering my ears from sharp undertones. Together we listened to The Supremes at full volume for an hour and a half. You Can’t Hurry Love made no sense.

Over the years you transformed. Your geriatric curves now bend from opposite directions. Plugs attach themselves to the ends of long skinny cords.  Your body sways and the music bends, but you’re still just the same.

May I never wear you out,

Your other half

http://in.pcmag.com/nabi-headphones/103029/feature/five-reasons-to-pick-in-ear-monitors-against-over

 

 

 

The Dollar Bill

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I was down. Down further than the ground. I was down so far that I barely heard the promise.

“Hey Bill,” my friend said. “I’ve got a friend, you’ve got to meet him. He’ll help you get out.”

“Get out from under?” I called up. “I’ve been down for so long, I don’t know if I can get up.”

“No, no, trust me. He’s a good guy. He’s the guy. The guy you’ve got to talk to.”

“Will he give me hope?”

“Give you hope?”

“Yeah, you know, will he give me the hope that I need to get up?”

“He’s got hope for you. I’ll set you up. You need to meet him.”

 

Two days later I was down. Down deeper into the ground. I was so down I was in the earth. Down without sound, I waited. I listened for the guy who was supposed to arrive.

A man with a beard that covered his entire face peeked down into the earth. His eyes were brows and his brows were white. I couldn’t see wrinkles, but I knew his face was a map. Cracked fault lines and desert eyes. Tears evaporated long ago.

“Are you Bill?” He called out.

“Yes.”

“You look far down there,” he said, straining to see me.

“I need help. I need to get back up.”

“I have just the thing for you. You won’t feel this way forever.”

“What do you have?”

“Hope. I have hope. Just give me fifty dollars and I’ll show you what I mean. You’ll feel better in no time.”

“What am I buying?”

“Hope. Nothing is for free. You pay for this once, you never have to pay for anything in your life ever again. This will work like nothing you’ve tried. You’re going to be okay, my friend. You’re going to be okay.”

My wallet was filled with twenties. Eighty dollars worth of twenties. “I only have twenties,” I shouted up to the man.

“That’s okay. Sixty will do. Trust me, you won’t miss it. This is good. This is what you need.”

I plucked out 3 twenty dollar bills and reached as far as I could toward the man in the sky.

“I can’t reach you.”

“Yes you can. You just have to believe in yourself.”

I reached farther.

“I still can’t reach you.”

“You have to have hope,” he said

I waved my wad of cash in the air, “but that’s what I’m paying for.”

 

http://bits.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/06/23/latvians-arrested-in-scareware-scam/