I hate the second beep sequence of the microwave, and the third beep sequence more, on and on exponentially. [side note: get around to reading that Shonagon pillow book, rachrach.] The microwave refuses to learn that I will not forget, after hearing the first beep sequence, that my whatever is ready.
If ever I should forget, Dear Microwave, that you beeped heralding the whatever’s readiness, I am obviously in a state of such distraction that the whatever I’m heating myself is truly of no consequence. It cannot hope to solve my topmost troubles of mind, and additional beep sequences similarly solve nothing, nothing whatsoever.
(Ironically, since usually the whatever is mainly liquid of some kind, broth, tea, what-have-you.)
You make vegetables rubber. Explode eggs. Rigidify meat. Render potatoes mealy. Microwave: it’s heinous that you should do that with the oatmeal the second I look away from your raping-via-radiation door. So you’ll not hold those again. Frankly, you’re lucky to agitate my molecules of broths and teas and cooled coffees. My weak and stingy moments, Microwave — I use you in salvaging a half-cup of something that lost its warmth (that may not have even been that good in the first place). You live with me because I walked you from Lakeview to Roscoe Village in my arms so as not to leave you to my ex’s vacating our old studio and you end up God-knows-where. (I know where. A dumpster. Alley. Or, more probably, given a street hobo then hocked or a murky fate I can neither follow nor fathom.)
But… …don’t learn not to beep more than once.
Yeah I know what I just said. But don’t. That would be weird. You weren’t engineered to it and I took you home knowing full-well that you weren’t.
But; well maybe you could just make the beeps a little less annoying? Softer, gentler, a little? Like an almost-imperceptible, bell, ding?
Yeah I probs just need to get rid of this microwave. Like my cellphone. All the problems incurred by texting, yet, socially, you start to outcast yourself by disengaging from all the appliances and accessories others expect you to have, and when you’re already an outcast, it makes you wonder where you might end up.
If I am overthinking things a tad, I would like to reserve the right to blame the tendency on addling incurred in front of the microwave, split-seconds in horror of registering a moment before’s placid bowl-bound oatmeal now surging and spewing forth and over the sides of the ceramic —