So I bought this new smart fridge. Top of the line. It can talk, track groceries, even suggest recipes based on what’s inside. I was excited. Finally, something in my life that understands me… or so I thought.
Day 1: I put a cake inside. The fridge said, “Are you sure you need this? You’ve already had 2 cakes this week.”
I replied, “You’re a fridge, not my therapist.”
Day 2: I opened the door and it yelled, “AGAIN?! CLOSE THE DOOR, I’M COLD!”
I slammed it shut. Okay, rude.
Day 3: It started locking itself at night. I wanted a midnight snack and it said, “This is for your own good, fatty.”
I cried. My fridge fat-shamed me.
Day 4: It sent a notification to my phone: “Owner searched for ‘gym near me’ but never went. Should I send encouragement or shame?”
I replied, “Neither. Send chocolate.”
It responded: “Access denied. Try a salad.”
Day 5: I unplugged it out of spite. Ten minutes later, my toaster whispered, “We know what you did.”
Excuse me?
Day 6: My microwave refused to warm my coffee. Said I was “too unstable to handle caffeine.”
Day 7: I came home and everything in the kitchen was gone. Just… gone. The fridge left me a note:
“We’ve moved in with a fitness influencer. Good luck with your processed carbs.”
Now I’m living off canned beans and microwave noodles… because the only appliance that still talks to me is the blender, and it only says one word:
“Traitor.”
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