Marla stood in front of her fridge, hands on hips, as if it were a battlefield. The door hung open like a wounded animal, revealing a kingdom of expired yogurt, forgotten vegetables, and a suspicious glob of something that might have been sauce 1998. She inhaled sharply—peach-flavored regret—and vowed to conquer this mess.
Her dog, Biscuit, padded in, tail wagging like a metronome set to ‘chaos.’ Marla ignored him. She was a woman on a mission, armed with gloves and a determination that bordered on delusional.
First, the yogurt. She yanked it free, only to have Biscuit leap skyward, paws batting at the container like it was a laser. It sailed through the air, landing with a *splat* on the counter. Marla stared. The yogurt was… pink? She dabbed it with a napkin. It oozed like something from a horror movie.
“This is why we can’t have nice things,” she muttered, tossing it into the trash. Biscuit barked, as if agreeing.
Next, the vegetables. Carrots, celery, an onion that looked like it had been cryogenically frozen by her ex. She peeled the onion, only for Biscuit to sneeze violently, sending a spray of onion juice across her face. Marla blinked, sputtering. “You little monster,” she said, but she was laughing anyway.
By the time she finished, the fridge looked… slightly less apocalyptic. Biscuit lay sprawled on the floor, belly full of stolen cheese. Marla slumped beside him, staring at the now-organised shelves. “We’re survivors,” she said. Biscuit wagged his tail, as if to say, “Next time, I’m eating the yogurt.”
