The Life and Times of Me, a Glad Plastic Fork: A Memoir

Hi, I’m Fork.

Nice to meet you.

You might not think much of me, but let me tell you: I’ve had a life. Not a long one in your terms—just twenty minutes in your hand—but in mine? Oh, I’ve already lived through decades of waiting, with centuries more ahead of me. Sit down. Stay awhile. Let me regale you.

Part 1: Born of Liquid Fire and Assembly Lines

I came into this world through fire. Literally. No storks, no magical forests—just a vat of molten goo and a machine that pressed me into existence with the precision of a caffeinated Swiss watchmaker.

And, yes, I bear the proud insignia of the Glad family. Because nothing says optimism like being made to last forever and used for only twenty minutes.

There I was: slim, sharp, and impossibly smooth. My prongs gleamed with the promise of purpose. Around me, rows of others just like me jostled in plastic-wrapped camaraderie. “We’re gonna make a difference,” one of them said. “Cutlery of the future!” another added.

We were so naive.

Packed into a cardboard box, we were shipped out to a nondescript warehouse, where we sat for what felt like ages.

And then the box opened.

My Big Moment

Ah, the meal. The pinnacle of my existence. The reason I was molded, wrapped, and stored for weeks in a slightly-too-cold industrial fridge.

A hand reached in and plucked me from the pile. I was chosen. CHOSEN! My prongs quivered with anticipation.

I was placed beside a plate of coleslaw and a grilled cheese sandwich. The smells—sharp vinegar, warm butter—wrapped around me like a congratulatory hug. This was it. My debut. My destiny.

I dove into the coleslaw with the precision of a surgeon and the enthusiasm of a Labrador retrieving a tennis ball. Each bite was a triumph, each scoop a masterpiece. I was unstoppable. A utensil in its prime.

And then, twenty minutes later, it was over.

Just like that, I was cast aside, tossed onto a tray with crumbs, smeared napkins, and an empty soda cup. Before I could process the injustice of it all, I was swept into a bin and buried under the leftovers of people who couldn’t even finish their fries.

Part 3: The Landfill Diaries

Have you ever been dropped into a mountain of garbage and left to contemplate your life choices? No? Lucky you.

I landed among apple cores, tin cans, and a questionable pizza crust. At first, I raged. “Seriously?” I muttered to no one in particular. “All this work, and I’m just tossed away? I could’ve handled another meal or two!”

But my complaints went unheard. The apple cores softened and disappeared within weeks. The paper melted into the soil. Even the tin cans began to rust, their edges crumbling into fragments. Meanwhile, I stayed the same—sharp, smooth, unchanged.

Decades passed. The weight of the landfill pressed down, layer upon layer of new waste. The seasons cycled endlessly: rain drumming on the surface, summers baking the earth, winters sending a faint chill through the layers of trash. Roots reached toward me, then recoiled as though insulted by my permanence. Birds cried overhead, their calls distant but persistent.

At some point—around year fifty, I think—I stopped raging and started noticing.

The landfill was…oddly interesting. There was a rhythm to it, a strange sort of life in the decay. Worms wriggled through the soil, rainwater trickled down, and the waste around me shifted and changed. The tin can beside me rusted into nothingness, and I started to admire its ability to crumble so gracefully.

By year two hundred, I’d become something of a philosopher. I mean, what else was I going to do?

“Is permanence a curse or a gift?” I mused. “To last forever—isn’t that what everyone wants?” But as the centuries crawled on, I began to think otherwise.

Part 4: Forever Is a Long Time

I don’t mean to sound bitter. Okay, maybe I do. But it’s hard not to feel a little cheated. I was made from the remains of ancient forests, the energy of long-dead creatures, and a whole lot of human ingenuity. And for what? Twenty minutes of coleslaw and a landfill eternity.

Still, I’ve come to accept my lot in life. I am here. I endure. The world above shifts and changes—forests grow, machines hum, storms rage—but I stay the same.

If you find me one day, know this: I’m not angry. I’m just waiting. And thinking. And maybe planning my next book.