The psychologists make a convincing case. I can understand their logic and after hours of intensive therapy, I can accept the truth. But still, that tiny kernel of doubt gnaws at me in the dark hours of the night, when I wake, sweating, with heart pounding. That question, which is always before me:
What if I am a little teapot?
My physique is perfect for it. Shortness and stoutness runs in my family and I am only a hairbreadth over 5’4”.
I have no handle or spout, but the fact that I can easily replicate them with my arms disquiets me. What if, upon forming their shapes in some playful gesture, they get stuck that way? What if I am forced to live out my life looking as if I am about to spew out hot liquid at any moment?
I would not say that I have an especially hot temper, but I have been known to shout when I get particularly angry. I try to resist it and every time I give in, I feel the dark teapot-ness inside me growing. I must hold it back.
That brings me to the tipping and pouring out. No two verbs fill me with such horror and I live in fear of some giant hand reaching down, grasping me and turning me on an angle. It is the stuff of nightmares. I carry both a taser and pepper spray for such an eventuality. I repeat: do not attempt to tip me! Do not try to pour me out! I am well armed.
(if by some chance you have no idea what this is about, click here)
The Green-Walled Tower 