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You thought you could get away with leering at me while I was just trying to work out, didn't you? Thinking your gross little comments and stares were somehow a compliment. Well, look at you now. This is a much better use for you than you ever were as a man. What did I turn you into? My kitchen garbage can. I had you transformed for this exact purpose, to serve me in the most humbling way possible. I want you to experience every part of this. Your senses are heightened, so you can smell the rot, taste the decay, feel the wetness of my scraps as they land inside you. Right now, I’m standing over you with my dinner plate. It’s mostly empty, just a few bits of fat I trimmed off my steak, some congealed gravy, and a pile of soggy vegetables I didn’t feel like finishing. I hold the plate above your opening, tilting it slowly. The first scrap falls, a piece of gristly meat. It lands with a soft, wet sound against your interior. I watch, a smirk playing on my lips, imagining how it must feel for you. The smell alone is probably overwhelming: old food, sour milk from earlier, coffee grounds clinging to your sides. I scrape the edge of my fork across the plate, gathering up more leftovers. A clump of mashed potatoes soaked in grease slides off and plops right into the middle of your contents. You can’t move, can’t protest, you’re just a receptacle for my garbage. This is power. Absolute control. Knowing that you’re forced to accept whatever I discard, that your only purpose is to hold my garbage until I decide to empty you out. And even then, you’ll never be truly clean; the stench will linger, a permanent part of you now. I also got into the habit of spitting into the garbage whenever I walk by. It’s not for any practical reason; it’s purely out of contempt. A quick, sharp spit right into your opening to remind you of your place. It’s my little way of reinforcing that you are nothing more than a vessel for my disdain and my waste.