I Am Not Your Broom

As I walked past my broom today I realized that it is just a stub of its former self. How did this happen? My broom used to have long, straight bristles ready to sweep the dirt away. Over the years the bristles slowly wore down, leaving a sad looking stick that can no longer perform its intended task in life. Am I not like my broom in some existential way? Perhaps I should restore my verve before I replace my broom. What would my broom say about this? "Do what you like, because I am not your broom."