SOL 15

I never liked orange anyway. The color or the fruit. Something was just, unsettling about both. In my little collection of nail polish, sits one vial of orange polish. It was one of six colors that came as a birthday gift from years back, but this is the only one left. Probably because it is the most hideous of all colors. (No offense if anyone likes this color) Now the cap is glued on with nail polish, and it is pretty much useless now that I can't even open it. The bottom quarter of nail polish has crusted over from lack of use, and of course Father Time himself. If I were to leave it as is, eventually nothing useful will be left. Just orange flakes of chemicals. Currently it has separated into oil and polish, looking repulsive. The cool little jar rests in my palm innocently begging me not to toss it in the trash. I should, shouldn't I; toss it in the trash. Yet it is still in my hand, something wont let me throw it away. I study it up and down as my fingers trace the curves of the glass, but I cant make a decision. Throw it away? Or save it? Suddenly my grandfather's voice pops into my mind. "Better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it" he would always stay. Thats the argument I give myself whenever I come across a piece of junk in my room. I guess nothing has changed, so I toss the ghastly vial back into the bin.