The name is Classic. Classic Original Chapstick. I was born in China and within days, immigrated here to the United States in a large box, squished by tens of thousands of my equals. However, many things did happen in my few days in the great land of China. As if I were nothing more than a duck used for foie gras, I had a huge cylindrical piece of some waxlike substance shoved up my non-rear end, courtesy of the ladies at the Xing Xiao Xiang factory in the Sichuan province. I’m betting that within the next ten years, some brave tube will protest this unethical practice of force-feeding. But until then, I guess I’ll keep to myself.

When I first arrived in the US, the thousands of us were separated and placed into thin cardboard boxes containing fifty tubes, which were then stacked and placed in a thicker cardboard box. I’m assuming that that thicker cardboard box was placed in an even thicker cardboard box, which was probably placed in a large truck, driven by an obese redneck driver. However, that is only speculation.

What I really know is that at some point, the thin box that held me was delivered to a store by the name of Krazy Kool Krap. It didn’t really have a lot of people coming in despite being in a high-traffic area. The cashier complained a lot about the name of the store, and upon further thought, I see that he is correct. I believe that saying that what you’re selling is “krap” is definitely not a smart business model.

After about five days in the Krazy Kool Krap store, a tanned woman in her mid-twenties picked me up. She had a nice figure, average-sized feet, and a pretty face. Well, it was pretty except for her lips – her lips were drier than the Gobi desert and had more cracks than a post-7.5-magnitude earthquake landscape. I heard some people say that she was from somewhere “on the coast” and wasn’t used to something called “Arizona.”

In the very beginning, I was given prime real estate. I was situated in the coziest pocket of her bright yellow purse. The pocket was all mine. She would uncap me and use me a lot – sometimes even ten times per day. But as time went by, she gradually stopped. But just like a boring boyfriend, I was quickly ignored. By our third month together, I was downgraded to the location of the commoners: the main purse compartment.

I’m not just complaining. I made some great friends in the main compartment. Wallet was quite an interesting character. She kept on gaining and losing and regaining and relosing weight. Gel Pen had a sparkly personality, and just like Wallet, often had the opportunity to get out of the bag and see the world. However, these friends couldn’t mask the fact that I was jealous; I just didn’t get to see the world at all anymore. Just like Ricola Wrapper and Half-used Kleenex bag, I sat in the bottom and longed for one more glimpse of light and one more breath of fresh air.

After about six months at the bottom, I got the feel or fresh air. We all did. All 107 of us were dumped into a soft surface, including three tampons, eleven keys, and the lonely container of pepper spray, who had become so accustomed to the bottom of the purse that his shape had become imprinted onto the purse. Legend has it that he hadn’t seen light for the last twelve years, and that he had really outlasted his life expectancy, which was a sequence of letters and numbers, spelled out as “JUN062004.”

So there we were, sitting on a soft surface. She used her now-smooth hands and sorted us into three groups. She called the first pile “junk”, the second pile “backpack”, and the third one “purse.” I never again saw those who were placed in the junk or backpack pile, which was really a shame because I was just starting to develop feelings for Cotton Candy Lip Smacker. Although she was just a preteen, we had so much in common, from our forced-fed upbringings in China to our placement in a less-than-profitable store. I thought we were going to click. Plus, she smelled good. She smelled really good.

I, along with about twenty other items, was located into a new purse. Despite the new habitat, our way of living remained pretty much the same. Wallet was getting fatter a lot more often now, but still lost weight very quickly. Kleenex bag and I rarely ever saw the light from the bottom of the purse.

She had switched purses relatively often. It was probably because she watched so much television, which may have caused her to subconsciously want to purchase unneeded items in order to boost her self-esteem. (Of course, that’s just my own theory.) Each time she switched, some items were placed in the junk pile and others were placed in the purse pile. I consider myself lucky to have made it through the cut so many times.

But then she purchased a 2x4x7 inch wristlet. It was Louis Vuitton or Gucci or something else “crazy expensive but totally worth it”, as she kept on insisting. Samsung Galaxy SIII took up about 87% of the space, so my owner was forced to strategize. She determined that if she got rid of all but a third of us, she could keep the wristlet. Onto the soft surface (which is apparently called a “bed”) we went. She inspected each of us with much attention. With each large object she verbally asked herself “Do I really need this?” When it was much turn to be inspected, I cringed.

“Hmmm. I haven’t used you in a while.”

She inspected every centimeter of my body, searching for a defect to justify abandoning me. My owner picked at the part of my wrapper in which the ink had rubbed off, but didn’t seem to think much of it. Having had what I thought was my most imperfect part ignored by her scrutiny, I felt like I was again victorious. Unfortunately, it didn’t last long. Much to my surprise, she found a blemish on me that I hadn’t even noticed, my life expectancy of “OCT082009.”

“EEEEEEEEEEWW!”

I was apparently too old. A shiver ran through her body before she threw me up in the air. She searched for a piece of scratch paper to pick me up by and abruptly chucked me into her plastic garbage bin.

Within moments, three Wrigley wrappers, a spider, a half-used pencil, and a stack of failed grammar and biology exams joined me in the bin. Although the papers, gum wrappers, pencil, and I am nothing alike, we agreed upon a consensus: that we were all going to die.

Now I’m in a truck full of rotten apple cores and soda cans and lightly worn clothing and baby poop. I know this is how they take things to die. I just hope I don’t end up in an incinerator. That’s garbage Hell.