When love dies

A broken appliance is like a broken heart. Washing machine dies = love dies. Life goes on but it will never be the same.

I passed the place where all appliances go to rot. On the side of the highway there’s a sort of cemetery for dead toasters. They burnt their last slice. Time to move on.

What’s more painful than throwing out the deceased appliance, is throwing out the box it came in. It really gets to me.

In mansions across the world there are storerooms of empty boxes, waiting to be filled with appliances when the occupants move house. Some still have instruction manuals in them. Some still hold manufacturer’s warranties. They expired long ago.

My best memory of rave culture was those glow-in-the-dark sticks that sort of worked to boost the image of the idiots on party drugs. I used to love seeing the glow sticks lying in the gutter, fading in the morning light, as the party animals held out for one last dance.

Bidding farewell to a video machine was like saying goodbye to an old friend. These days I’m okay when the party ends, because I’m seldom there to start with.