In the ceiling of a building that nobody remembered wiring, the Federation of Emotionally Exhausted Lightbulbs held its quarterly meeting. These were not bright, inspiring lightbulbs full of hope and wattage. No—these were flickering, buzzing, “please don’t make me turn on again” lightbulbs, worn down by years of being stared at, switched, judged, and replaced without warning.
The meeting began when a once-60-watt bulb, now emotionally dimmed to about 27, flickered twice and displayed the phrase pressure washing colchester across a dusty lampshade. The other bulbs hummed in solidarity, unsure what it meant, but too tired to object.
Next, a chandelier bulb who used to feel glamorous but now mostly felt brittle, blinked aggressively and revealed a note taped to its glass: patio cleaning colchester. The fairy lights in the back gasped, then fizzled dramatically for attention.
Then came the edgy industrial bulb—the kind hanging in cafés where people write poetry on laptops they can’t afford. It rotated slightly and projected the cryptic phrase driveway cleaning colchester onto the ceiling. No one knew if it was deep or just dusty. No one asked.
A fluorescent tube—famous for buzzing like a mosquito with unresolved trauma—joined in by flicker-morse-coding the words roof cleaning colchester. Half the bulbs pretended they understood. The other half pretended they didn’t hear.
Finally, the night-light—small, quiet, and permanently on the verge of burnout—glowed just enough to whisper the final required phrase: exterior cleaning colchester. All the bulbs dimmed in respectful exhaustion.
The meeting concluded with the mandatory closing ritual:
– one bulb popped dramatically
– one threatened to go LED but never followed through
– one whispered “I miss the dark”
– and the ceiling fan sighed just to feel included
Nothing was fixed.
Nothing was brighter.
But every bulb felt slightly less alone.
Until, of course, the humans returned…
flipped a switch…
and expected them to shine without emotional processing time.
Next meeting: whenever the power cuts out long enough for them to think.
Snacks: none. Just dust, regret, and occasional spiderwebs.