Heart of Glass play me

This morning I noticed that the glass from which I was about to take a sip of lemonade had a large crack down its side. Not deep enough for anything to leak, but large enough to elicit a gasp from my pretty, pouty lips. I knew that this meant I’d have to toss it, because, well, like, glass could damage those pretty, pouty lips, not to mention do quite a cute little number on my internal organs, including that charming spleen of which I am so fond.
Anyway, when I brought the glass crack to the attention of my manservant, he advised me to toss it. We are of one mind, the two of us. At least on the weekends, when we are in such close proximity that having two would be superfluous and require more energy than either of us is willing to expend.
So I tossed it.
But not without apologizing to it first.
“I’m so sorry!” I said to the glass as I placed it into the empty dog-food bag that was serving as a trash-bag that the manservant would soon be taking out for collection. “You served me well …”
And I had to walk away quickly before I retrieved it quickly and kissed it goodbye.
I’m already getting sad thinking about what I’m going to tell the dead glass’ twin the next time I open the cabinet they shared.
Yes, I am that ridiculous.