When I'm bored, I like to sit in my kitchen sink and groove on its cool porcelain presence. "I sink, therefore I am," it seems to say, and who could disagree? It makes so much sense.
When I'm feeling down, I can count on my sink to be there for me. "Sink or swim," it says, and I have to laugh. Where does it get this stuff, anyway? I don't know, but it always make me feel better. That's the main thing.
When I'm sleepy, my sink sings me a lullaby. Its gurgling baritone pulls me down . . . down . . . down into the land of nod. "Sweet dreams," I hear it say, and then I'm gone. Hook, line, and sinker.
When the cupboard is bare and I'm forced to eat dirt, my sink reminds me that everyone else is poor, except me. "Let them have their diamonds, and their fancy cars," says the sink. I know that's true, but sometimes I forget. They have everything but the kitchen sink. How sad is that?