Pick Me Pick Me

I quiver with excitement. Here comes Big Hand. Will she pick me up? Big Hand picks up a pink paper clip. Pink paper clip sticks her tongue out at me; we loathe each other. She always thinks she’s all that when she gets chosen over me. I can do small jobs too, you know, I think with a sigh. My arch enemy, clipped to the top of several sheets of white paper is lying on her side now, gloating. I cannot believe her smug grin. Big Hand is moving again toward me. Choose me! Choose me! I yell, but only in my mind, as I have no voice. Big Hand picks up a pen and begins to write, types on the keyboard. Plick. Plick. Plick. Plick. Plick. Plick. She types fast. Picks up gray eraser, furiously tears him apart all over the paper. I am relieved she never does that to me. Typing again. Plick. Plick. Plick. Plick. Plick. Stops. Decimates eraser a bit more. Scrapes his skin off onto the floor. I feel hopeful because I almost always get used after Big Hand does this much typing. This is always when she needs me the most. I listen to keyboard clicking for three days, and two nights. On Wednesday morning Big Hand moves precariously close to me. Is this my day? I seize up with excitement. She slides a bunch of papers into my large metallic mouth. Snap. Snap. She looks at the teeth I have left. Smiles. Satisfied. I happily stick my tongue out at pink paperclip. Who is the top dog now?