Marla stared at the toaster, its crumb tray jammed like a stubborn toddler. She’d pressed the lever ten times, each click followed by a puff of smoke that smelled like burnt ambition. The bread slices, now charred relics, clung to the slots like they’d formed a union.
“Come on,” she muttered, jabbing the eject button with a spatula. The toaster whined, then spat out a half-melted slice that landed on the floor with a soft *plop*. Marla froze. A single piece of bread, now coated in carpet fibers and existential dread, stared back.
She grabbed a napkin, bent to retrieve it, and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the toaster’s stainless steel interior. Her hair was a nest, her pajamas had a mysterious sauce stain, and her life was a series of half-baked decisions. The toaster beeped triumphantly, ejecting another charred slice as if to say, *You’re welcome.*
Marla slumped against the counter, staring at the mountain of toast. One piece was vaguely edible. She grabbed it, only to realize it was still attached to the toaster’s heating element. With a yank, she pulled it free—only for the toaster to emit a loud *ping* and shoot a blob of melted butter across the kitchen. It splattered on the wall, forming a grotesque mural of regret.
She stood there, butter on the wall, toast in hand, and laughed until her ribs ached. The toaster glared back, its crumb tray still jammed. Somewhere, a coffee maker whispered, *I told you so.*
