If you take into account the vast quantity of pickles found in the fridge at the moment while also considering that everyone in this house enjoys the zesty crunchy garlic enriched sensation that only a pickle can offer, you might wonder why the pickles are lonely.
Why are the pickles lonely Todd?
This is the question I ask Todd every night when I look out my living room window. Todd lives in the garden and likes to wear striped shirts with small bent forks glued to them. Before bed, speaking loudly for me to hear him through the deafening wall that is the window pane, Todd tells me, he says, “Richard, the pickles aren’t lonely. The pickles can’t be lonely. They are inanimate objects. Inanimate objects lack a brain and the necessary input and output devices to know what lonely is, let alone feel it”
Todd tells me this every night, and every night, I ask him the same question. I find it difficult to accept the answer he gives me through the window pane, for he is on the outside of the window pane and I am on the inside. I have a first hand account of the state of the pickles, for I can open the fridge and examine the pickles from up close. I can clearly see that the pickles are lonely. Floating inside their cramped jar. Todd may be correct that the pickles do lack input and output devices to some degree, but not entirely. When I look closely at the pickles, ever so closely, I can see the bumps and wrinkles in their leathery green skin. Each day I see the bumps grow more pronounced. Each day I see the wrinkles grow deeper. Each day I see the pickles, and each day I ask Todd why the pickles are lonely. Maybe one day, Todd will see the pickles too, and maybe, just maybe we won’t have to talk about the pickles at a volume that one would use when separated by a pane of glass.