Imperfection.

Not all plastic spoons are created equal.
They're supposed to be, of course. Each one makes its way down the same shiny little ramp at the manufacturing plant in China boasting an identical mix of semisynthetic, semiorganic, amorphous-solid polymers. But however noble the producers' efforts to create a sea of disposable cutlery clones, their goal is never perfectly achieved. Blame it on the flaws built into a Gaussian distribution, but I can taste a difference.

It's not that I think about spoon morphology often. By their very nature, spoons aren't supposed to call attention to themselves. They're a means to an end, nothing more. But when a spoon is imperfect, I can't think of anything else. Maybe there's one little ridge in its otherwise pristine plastic surface. Maybe one edge is an eighth of a millimeter higher than the other. Maybe the bowl is just the tiniest bit deeper than usual.

Let me tell you one thing. I know how spoons are supposed to feel in my mouth.
And when I get one that doesn't conform, I'm not sure how I should react. Should I praise the Industrial Production Gods for evidence that even machines aren't perfect? Should I blame the unskilled laborer who forgot to fine-tune that one last piece of machinery at the end of his sixteen-hour day? Should I direct my emotion toward scientifically perfecting said machinery to the point where I inadvertently eliminate the job of the unskilled laborer (and any hope for the human element with respect to robots)? I’m not sure. What I am sure of, though, is that making that collect call to Guangzhou cost way more than it was worth.