FicWad

I stole this glue.
I know I did – I remember stealing it. It seemed unfair not to. That small plastic tube, 15 grams of usefulness, left unused. Fusting, as Hamlet would say, in a box in the room at the back of the art room with a hundred other identical sticks, its purpose unfulfilled.

Unless.

Unless I snake my fingers oh-so-carefully around its circumference, and steal away, glue in hand, to a place I can sneak it into my pocket to safety. And then? And then what?

What do gluesticks dream of? Do they dream of gluing, of spreading their creamy, almost-white innards onto something, anything, that needs to be stuck to something, anything, else?

Or do they dream of thrift? Of hoarding their precious cargo, keeping it for themselves? Of cherishing that full, gorged feeling until they can no longer stand it, and make themselves dried and cracked with satiety?

Or do gluesticks even dream? Sometimes, as Freud said, a cigar is just a cigar.

A gluesitck is just a gluestick.




Maybe I should eat it.