The Tragic Cut Down Of Cutlery

(It’s national novel writing month, and I’m participating. This means that my already bizarre imagination is working overtime. It should also be noted that I keep plastic spoons by my bedside to snack on low fat peanut butter from time to time.)

Me: *taking the last spoon out of the box* “This is my last spoon.”

Fiancée: “I’ll get you more tomorrow when I go shopping.”

Me: “You don’t understand. This reminds me of my uncle. He was a spoon, too… but he was killed during the last Great Utensil War.”

Fiancée: “The what?!”

Me: “He was… He was…” *sniff* …standing guard, when he was ambushed by a group of butter knives hiding in a salad. Their reflective surfaces helped them to blend in with their surroundings.”

Fiancée: “I’m going back to playing my video game.”

Me: “Uncle Spoony never stood a chance.”

Fiancée: “You need help.”

Me: “They forked him up pretty bad.”

Fiancée: “It’s a good thing I love you, or one of us would be packing right now, and I don’t think it would be me.”