You are hard for me to use. My fingers aren't used to your ways. You are like the long, wooden, and joint-less limbs I never learned to operate.
Chopsticks, you came into my life last night. I didn't pick the restaurant, but you were there. The food was flavored for Americans, and you chopsticks, you were the marketing mechanism that added Eastern authenticity. You were also the default option. Could I have asked for a fork? Sure. But I didn't want to upset you. And why would I? Just because you're different doesn't mean you're inferior.
And it's true. I learned some tricks last night; I think we grew closer. If I ever drop a piece of food deep down in-between the couch cushions, and it's just out of reach, I'm going to use you, chopsticks. If I ever need to chop my food, I'm going for you, chopsticks. If I'm ever eating sticks, once again, I prefer the chopsticks. More sticks are better than less sticks, always.
Thank you chopsticks.
Another Regular Consumer of Food