Cello

If I were a cello my thoughts would probably go along the lines:

Boy... it's really dark in this case. It's been a week since she's let me out of here. It's kind of dark and muffled. And the velvet is kind of itchy. Do I hear snuffling?! Gross! It's that awful dog. Ugh... I can smell his breath from in here!

Wait... the ground is shifting. She's picking up the case! At last! I might be free! OUCH. Can't you carry me nicely? Sheesh. Did you just ram the case against the wall or something? If I break that's $3000 down the drain for you. Great. Now we're in the car. I always get carsick. I think I had too much rosin last night.

Thirty Minutes Later...
Finally, I get to be with my fellow cellos. Oh gross.... it's that snobby kid's cello. He thinks he's soooo great. Whatever. His kid can't even play the open A. Looks like they're about to play. I hate being scratched by that god-awful bow. It sends plumes of rosin dust all over my pretty wooden figure. Who ever came up with the idea of plucking? The nerve of some people! OW! That kid just hit me with his bow! If I had arms you would be sorry! I can't believe I have to spend two more hours of this torture.

Two Hours Later...
zzzzzzz...

Thursday Afternoon...
Hello my kid's cello instructor! It's nice to be in your cat-infested home today!