By Chris Cosci

It happened again. I was sitting on the couch. In one hand, a jar of salsa. In the other hand, a tortilla chip. I dipped the chip into the salsa and lifted it out of the jar. I held the chip steady and waited patiently to make sure that no stray chunk of tomato was falling off and no excess salsa was dripping over the edge. Slowly, I lifted the chip higher and moved my mouth forward. In one swift move, I bolted forward and took a bite, swallowing the entire covered portion of the chip.

After savoring the flavor, I looked down to see something I tried desperately to avoid: a salsa stain, smack dab in the middle of my shirt. It never fails. I think we need to open our eyes and recognize the truth that has been staring us in the face: inanimate objects are not actually inanimate.

Don't you ever wonder why food rarely falls off your fork over the plate? It can't be coincidence. I think the food is waiting for you to try eating it. As long as you keep it over the plate, it will just hang there - totally still. As you begin to move, it waits patiently until the fork has moved away from the table. Then, just before the fork reaches your mouth, the food jumps.

It doesn't fall. This is a well-timed leap of faith from the fork to your shirt. The whole mission was planned out from the minute you scooped up the food. From the fork, the food goes into a free dive, intent on finding the most prominent location on your shirt or pants. Some so-called scientists will try to attribute this to gravity. But I know better.

If the food ever does fall back on to your plate, you are probably eating something that is covered in sauce or gravy. The food then acts like a little kid in a rain puddle, eager to splash the liquid into as many directions as possible. If it can hit both your clean, white shirt and the new, lace tablecloth, it has succeeded beyond expectations.

But food isn't the only object we have falsely assumed to be inanimate. I'm also convinced that keys have a mind of their own. Keys have a way of finding that one loose loop of thread in the seam of your coat pocket - especially when it's most inconvenient. The keys will get stuck in your pocket when you have a heavy box in your arms or when it's pouring rain. And what happens when you finally snap the thread and pull the keys out? The keys slip out of your hand and fall to the ground. If this happens once or twice, it's understandable. But you and I both know the keys are much more devious than that.

However, if you want the strongest proof of the conscious efforts of inanimate objects, you need look no further than cords. Have you ever put two computer cords into a single drawer together? Have you noticed what happens when you take them out of the drawer? They have somehow tied themselves together, wrapping around each other in a series of knots more complex than even the most able sea captain could create. In fact, you don't even need two cords to prove this theory. Just put one cord in a drawer. By the time you take it out, the cord will have found a way to wrap around itself a dozen times, creating knots up and down its entire length.

Realistically, this should not happen. If you put a cord into a drawer and pull it out, it should come out exactly as you put it in. This is what you would assume from an inanimate object.

It's time we start noticing when these inanimate objects come to life: you're carrying a pile of books, and the top book waits until you are climbing a set of stairs before falling to the floor; you drop a screw while putting something together, and it amazingly rolls underneath the heaviest piece of furniture in the room; you put something on a shelf, and it waits just until you turn away before tipping forward and falling off.

These are not accidents. We have tried to tell ourselves that we have complete control over these objects. We just have to admit that we're not. And once we do, maybe we'll be able to cohabit the Earth in peace with them... I think I just heard my computer chuckle.