Good afternoon. I hate you.
This may seem harsh, but I just had to be honest from the get-go. I tried to rearrange so that I wouldn't have to use you, but it was futile, and you knew it. Your rickety hinges and screeching gliders would do the trick, but you insist on insulting me further... you NEVER want to go back where you belong. How many countless minutes have I wasted trying to realign your hinges, pulling and pushing and pushing and pulling until finally you surrender?!
I've had enough! If I could I would throw you over the balcony, but as aforementioned your drawer space is necessary. I wish I could say you are completely useless, but this would be a lie. You do hold pans well, out of sight, and out of mind. But when I read through the recipe [like my mama always said I should do before I even begin baking...], and I see "on a greased baking sheet" I cringe, and a piece of me dies a little. I know that I will have to bend over in unnatural ways just to reach you, and then, while whispering prayers under my breath, gently and oh-so-carefully pull you loose.
There are times you cooperate. But those times are few and far between. When you do, and you slide back into your cubby hole under the oven properly, I raise my hands and let out a cry of victory, for the battle has been won.
But usually you don't. Usually you creak and slither your way out of my grasp and off your hinges. And then you hang, cockeyed and smug, not caring about the time it will take me to put you back together.
Someday I will move away. Someday I will possibly own my own house that comes with an oven, or I will purchase my own. You can be certain, oh drawer-under-the-oven, that YOU will be the first thing I check before giving any of my money away.
Until then the battle continues, and it's only fair for you to know that I am VERY competitive.