The phone cord was a tangled serpentine nightmare, coiled around itself like it had a vendetta. I tugged, yanked, and muttered curses only my cat could hear. The cord resisted, as if possessed by the ghost of 1990s tech. My neighbor, Mr. Pudelwick, materialized in his bathrobe, holding a spatula like a sword. “You’re disturbing the peace!” he barked, eyeing my futile struggle. I froze, mid-yank, as the cord snapped free—only to wrap around his leg. He lurched sideways, spilling eggs onto the floor. “This is why we can’t have nice things,” I said, staring at the omelet-shaped crater in his rug. He glared, spatula raised, as I sprinted to the kitchen, leaving a trail of scrambled chaos behind.
