Soap

My dearly beloathéd, the shelf.

There is a certain shelf across the back of the kitchen sink. It's got a basket for miscellaneous scrubbers and brushes. It holds the standalone timer, several more brushes, the sugar bowl, some miscellaneous knives, some of the other kitchen tat that hasn't got a better home.

It ought to be super convenient. I hate it.

It has spindly little legs and no cross bracing. It's up on bricks to make it tall enough. It wobbles any time you interact with it.

I had just put bacon on the stove. My hands were a mess. I snagged the faucet handle with the non-greasy side of my hand, then the dish soap pump. Most of the grease scrubbed off, but not all. I reached up to the foam soap pump on the shelf and gave it a push.

The shelf wobbled. The top-heavy coffee cup wobbled and pitched off. I caught it, just barely. I lost what remained of my composure.

"I HATE YOU!!!" I shrieked at the fucking shelf.

Belovedest appeared, and I gave them my opinion of the shelf. Then I enlisted their help with the rest of the bacon.

(The bacon was delicious. I still hate that shelf.)