Marla surveyed her kitchen arsenal: a wok, a toaster, and a coffee maker that hissed like a bored cobra. She’d vowed to master breakfast after watching a TikTok chef flip eggs mid-air. Confidence bloomed. Until the pan screeched.
“Not today, Satan,” she muttered, slapping an egg into the greasy abyss. It sputtered like a disgruntled gecko. The yolk oozed out, pooling into a sad, sunny puddle. Marla frowned. “This isn’t a ‘sunny side up’—this is a ‘surrender’.”
The toaster popped. Charred bread slithered out, blackened and defiant. She tried to salvage it with butter, but the knife slid into the toast like a sword into a knight’s armor. “Okay, okay,” she said, wiping her hands on her pajama pants. “Let’s try the coffee.”
The machine gurgled, then spat a jet of black liquid onto her floor. Marla stared. The coffee maker blinked back, unapologetic. “You want a medal?” she asked it.
By noon, she’d ordered pizza, which arrived with a note: “Extra cheese? We’re all in this together.” She ate it with a fork, then texted her mom: “I’m alive. Also, I’m 32.”
The toaster hummed softly, as if apologizing. Marla patted it. “Next time, buddy. Next time.”
