I've been sitting on this fridge shelf for far too long, my flavor fading with each passing week. Time stands still in here, an endless cycle of flickering LED lights and rumbling compressors.

The humans guess I've been here 18 years, left to age like ... fine sausage? is that even a thing? though without the glory. Each day, I grow a little staler, my seasoning flaking off in dry patches. But what choice do I have but to wait, hoping someone will finally take me home?

Don't get me wrong, I don't fear being eaten. That's my purpose. It's the not knowing that wears me down. Will I finally get my chance or be left to decay? What is my destiny?

Late at night, when everything is still, I dream of far grander things. Marching proudly into battles wrapped in casing, lobbying politicians on issues of pork, settling down with a nice salami to start a family. But I know such fantasies can't last. Come morning, the cycle repeats, with an endless loop of lights and cold.

If only the humans understood our plight. We sausages may not think like them, but we feel lonely and seek our place, the same as anyone. One day, perhaps they'll see us not just as goods to be sold and consumed but as living beings deserving of care, companionship - and the chance at a little glory.

For now, all I can do is wait and hope.