Here's my Wed. night (late) fiction. It's a story from the point of view of an object. 

“Hi there. How are we today?”

“Do you mean ‘we’ in the royal sense or the you-and-I collective, because the former is ridiculous whereas the latter isn’t very sensible considering I have issues--issues which you can base your entire living upon.” 

The polished man looked down into his lap and fidgeted for a moment. The crinkling of a wrapper represented crickets among the silence. His unwavering calm unnerved me. He popped a dum-dum into his mouth and smiled a smile that suggested i should spew my troubles. 

We sat in silence. I’m a stubborn individual. Unfortunately, so is he. 

He plucked his dum-dum from his mouth and held it to admire its glistening red character. The dum-dum apparently had troubles of his own. But dum-dums can’t talk (hence the moniker). 

“I’m under appreciated!” said I, conceding the battle of will. 

The shrink smiled, popping the stoic lollipop back in his mouth. His eyebrows urged me on. 

“I’m constantly being used. Constantly! I do my job, and I do it well. Very little kvetching. And I like my job well enough, but does anyone ever thank me? No!” 

“So, you would like some praise?” slurped the shrink, still reveling in his hard cherry bounty-on-a-stick (poor fella). 

“Well, now, not all the time, I mean. I’m a strong specimen-”

“-Appliance.”

“Appliance. I stand corrected.” Jerk. 

“But I maybe would like a little consideration now and then. I mean, I work hard--hell, I’ve worked down to the blade for these people! And I try. God knows I try. I do, but after the knife-”

“-How long has it been since the incident, now?” He looked down and flipped through my file.

“Four months now. It hurts. It hurts real bad, doc. Not really painful. It’s just..”

“Are you still having problems performing?” 

“Hell no!” I straightened up. Pftt. Performance. “Of course not! I’m solid...It’s just..”

“Yes?” The shrink looked over his glasses at me. 

“It’s just...Last week, okay? I’m given a whopper. Half a cabbage! And I think, ‘I got this,’ right? And here, I’m grinding away and I think, ‘Yeah, baby! I can do this!’ and then my bum blade gets all caught up and they have to stop the works and pull the bastard up.”

“That must have been hard for you.”

“But here’s the thing, doc, here’s the thing: I hadn’t even thought about it. I thought the blade was there the whole time! I thought I was invincible! But I’m not, doc. I’m vincible.” 

“There’s no shame in breakage. That’s why there are warrantees.” 

“I don’t WANT warrantees. I want my blade.” 

He pulled the dead soldier, bitten and white, from his mouth (Gaw’blessum), and began writing a scrip. 

“Okay, I want you to take this cleanser weekly, and we’ll see how you take to it. All of my other garbage disposal clients have been quite pleased with its effects.” 

“Okay,” said I. 

He stood up, dead soldier in hand. I winced instinctively, thinking the shrink would drop him in. 

I could have taken him, though. I’m tough.