Handling It

While I was at home I was happy and busting with life. The smell of meatballs being cooked to perfection, as much furniture as one could dream of and the joy of observing clients getting lost amidst the IKEA classic chaos. However, happiness does not last forever. The great Purchasing Day came. Indeed, I was bought for the frivolous amount of 10kr. Outrageous as that might be for a sentient mug, I was prepared for the times to come. I knew my mission in life was to be enslaved by humankind, forced to serve blazing hot liquids to caffeine addicted monkeys. Nonetheless, there was one thing that I was not prepared for. Clumsiness.

I was dropped. Shattered. Gravity got the best of me. No matter how good a mug I was, no matter how diligently I served coffee daily, no matter how little I complained… the accident happened. My careless owner grabbed me by the handle, stated that I was too hot and proceeded to drop me. I have always been aware of my attractiveness, but I never expected that being too hot would be a problem. But it was: a deafening sound, my insides spilled all over the table and… my handle was no longer attached to me. It was amputated by the cruel laws of physics combined with the stupidness of my fellow human.

They left me in a hidden cupboard with complete disregard to my broken status, never to be used again. I shared space with other outcasts. It was a pathetic view: a toaster that could not toast, a slow cooker that was too slow and me, a mug with no handle. The days were grim at the cupboard, the darkness was constantly looming around and the silence was so loud that was impossible not to hear it. Inside me, the urge to become useful started to grow. Even though I hated the fact that an IKEA mug was supposed to serve coffee after coffee, enslaved, I was suddenly catching myself dreaming. Dreaming about pouring a hot beverage, dreaming about making someone happy. But broken I laid, in a dark, dark, cupboard.

Right before losing my sanity, the cupboard’s doors were held wide open. A beam of light blinded me, and after recovering, I could see a little human. She was directly gazing at me, a mischievous smile on her lips. I did not smile back. Armed with glue and a permanent marker, she invited me to the operating room. I can’t say she was the best surgeon, I can’t say it was painless, but I can say she fixed me. Once again, my handle and I were one. The little girl seemed proud of herself, and as the worthy artist she was, she decided to imprint her signature on me. Apparently, her signature was “World’s Greatest Dad”. I thought that was a weird name for a little girl, but as they say, to each their own. I was fixed.

From that day on, my services are required regularly. Not by the little girl, but by a smiling human with a prominent moustache. The tickling is quite pleasant. Unlike my cupboard time, the days are now packed with warmth and joy, with music and sound, and I could not be happier to be a part of it. I am part of a greater whole, and that gives me certainty. Certainty that if I am ever too hot again, if I am ever broken, I will be fixed. I was wrong: IKEA mugs do not serve humans, nor humans serve IKEA mugs. We handle it together.