The Afterlife Of Inanimate Objects

One of the most common, trite, writing prompts is to write from the perspective of an inanimate object. This does usually succeed in getting an inexperienced/rut-trapped writer to not transparently write about themselves or The Human Condition. Sure, a little bit (or many bits) may come through but it's only the most narcissistic writer that comes out of this exercise writing a diatribe about how their overprotective mother is to blame for their failure to advance past the first round on Chopped.

But what happens to the inanimate object when it eases to be useful, or when it used to its capacity? 

Noel Fielding has a routine called The Teabag Dream, where he is a bag of herbal tea longing to be taken out of a cupboard only to witness what happens when a teabag is removed from the cupboard ("Only a teabag can hear another teabag scream"). As he, the teabag, is used for a creative project and not to make tea, he "survives" and returns to his cupboard bound comrades to speak of the horror that awaits them if they're ever selected.

​Write about the journey of another inanimate object back to its kind to warn them of the horrors of the afterlife, or lack of afterlife. Bonus points for not making it somehow about your ex.