'Me. Me. Pick me! ... Oh. Fine. Use the new Dirt Devil.'
I sighed as Kyle picked out one of the newer models yet again. Well... I whirred, to be exact. Out of his 165 vacuums, I was one of the oldest. In fact, I believe I was the third vacuum he ever acquired. My handle was worn, my fan was clogged... I was hackneyed in general. And I suppose that was a cogent reason for not selecting me. But, that didn't stop me from being disappointed.
When twelve-year-old Kyle Krichbaum was younger, you could nearly see our rapport. I, Harla D. Hoover, was his most trusted an favorite vacuum. Nearly every day I'd be taken out for a whirl. We were cohesive in our efforts to keep his house clean; spotless. And, at the end of every week, that young boy would open me up and clean each individual piece that made up my convoluted machinery and wiring. Recently, however, he's been neglecting me for the newer models.
Oh, how I loathe those fancy, overly-decorative things. They seduce him with their poignant and florid promises of swiveling handles and better suction. Why, if I was taken into a shop, I could do just as well, if not better than them! ...But alas. It is not so. As the adage goes: 'Trust takes time to build, and only seconds to break." And the first time I backfired and coughed out dust, I had broken Kyle's trust in me.
I suppose that event was didactic, though, as afterward I made sure to run through my mechanics when the others were asleep. It helped to ensure no such thing would happen again. But my work was in vain, as he hasn't approached me since, leaving me to cry effusively to myself and wallow in despair. This is how the rest of my days are to be spent: Watching and waiting as my beloved goes through his collection, eagerly awaiting the day I am picked again.
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