Hey, everyone, I couldn’t help overhearing in this giant, nigh-deserted, echoey castle that you were doing an elaborate musical number where everyone was involved. Well, almost everyone. It seems like you forgot about me, the servant in this castle who was turned into a chamberpot.

Consider what you just sang:

Course by course, one by one,
Till you shout, “Enough, I’m done.”
Then we’ll sing you off to sleep as you digest…

Kind of the perfect opportunity for me to jump in there, no?

I can’t help but feel no one wanted me here. Why? Because there’s not a good way to clean me other than throwing my contents out the nearest window?

But I can sing! I can also handle a big number. Honestly, that’s a good description of my day-to-day. Sometimes it’s several big numbers. French food is heavy. Loads of bread.

The Beast behaves like a beast, eats like a beast, and courts women like a beast, but he insists upon using the bathroom like a gentleman. It’s the only thing that reminds him he was once a man.

Well, I, too, once was a man.

Before the Beast brought this curse upon us, I had respect. As a member of the royal guard, my peers looked to me for guidance on safety protocols. I kept the castle and all its occupants safe. We were a family. Now you all sing without me.

And maybe I wasn’t artistically inclined before my transformation, but when life gives you lemons… God, I wish I were getting lemons. Annette got to be a fruit bowl. No offense, Annette, you’re great.

How often do you all hang out and sing without me? This production has definitely had rehearsals.

I feel excluded and ashamed. Looking in the mirror is hard for me most days. Mainly because the mirror keeps telling me how much it thinks I smell.

Cards on the table, do the servants who were turned into those cards on that table also hate me? Does the table hate me? What about the napkins, the candlesticks, the chalices, or the rug?

You spurn me, but I can sing. Just listen to what I’ve got:

Be our guest! Be our guest!
If you sprinkle when you tinkle, wipe my face; don’t leave a mess.
Be our guest, be our guest, you can see why I am stressed.
Our prince weighs around two tons, and he’s about to have the runs.

Pretty good, right?

And I heard Mrs. Potts sing, “Is it one lump or two?” That lyric makes just as much sense coming from me.

I’m also stuck on Lumière’s line, “After all, this is France.”

What does that mean? Are you having orgies without me? I miss orgies. And physical contact with anything other than the prince’s hairy rear end.

No songs and no sex for ol’ Chamberlain the Chamberpot.

Maybe it wouldn’t feel as bad if all my fellow guardsmen hadn’t been turned into their favorite weapons. Maces. Lances. Swords. Hugo is a whole suit of armor, which we can all admit is cool as hell. I would have settled for a slingshot. Or a sharp stick.

Margot only ever showed up to work drunk and stole her weight in gold from the prince’s coffers, and somehow she gets to be a crystal chandelier? The centerpiece of the entire castle? Make it make sense. She’s always getting a leg up. I used to yearn for a leg up. Now, a leg up means terrible things are coming my way.

What did I do to deserve this fate? Like, I’m actually asking, what did I do? This is supposed to be a punishment for the prince. And I’m not sure I see how “being a ten-foot-tall furry” is worse than “getting shit in by a ten-foot-tall furry every single day.”

The Beast’s body is basically a boar-lion-wolf-dog-bear-lion-gorilla-man hybrid. And he has the anus to prove it. Imagine that. You can’t. But I can. I see it when I close my eyes.

Practicing a pirouette or a dance line with some plates would really take my mind off that.

I guess it could be worse. Marcel had a nut allergy, and he got turned into a butter knife. On day one, he was stuck in a jar of peanut butter, and it was game over for him. He’s still in the drawer with all the other courtesans turned cutlery. No one seems to have noticed. And after Louis got turned into a chair, the Beast sat on him, and he splintered into a million pieces. His fiancée, who had been turned into a broom, had to sweep him up. It’s all very macabre.

I don’t have time to dwell on it, though, because the Beast just rounded the corner whistling. Wait, he’s practicing lyrics. Oh, come on, you asked him to sing? This shit is all his fault. Metaphorically. But also the literal shit that’s all over me.

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NEW YORK, NY - APRIL 26: Offical NFL hats for the Indianapolis Colts and the Washington Redskins are bought into Radio City Music Hall during the 2012 NFL Draft at Radio City Music Hall on April 26, 2012 in New York City. (Photo by Al Bello/Getty Images)