You might be surprised to learn that someone is determining whether or not your appliances work on a day-to-day basis. That your fridge isn’t just malfunctioning because of some electrical failure. It’s because of a person, and I am that person, and your appliances are the tools with which I craft my art, and make your life a living hell.
It’s wonderful to finally meet you, or it’s terrible to meet you. Which is it? Who knows. That’s not how I operate. There is no rhyme or reason to any of my actions. This makes life exciting for you—not in the way a surprise party is exciting but in the way that makes you late for the party so that you accidentally ruin it for the person you were supposed to surprise, because your oven stopped working.
When you put your clothes in the washing machine, you do so with the expectation that they will be washed. Well, that’s your first mistake. Why do you think you deserve clean clothes? When the clothes emerge and don’t have any clumps of coagulated detergent acting as a horrifying adhesive between them, do you even thank me? No, you don’t. But please don’t take this to mean that if you started thanking me, you would get clean clothes. I’m actually not looking for anything from you when I make the washing machine work. I just do it when I want to. It’s an exercise in control, in a world in which control is hard to come by (as evidenced by the fact that you don’t control when your washing machine washes your clothes).
Now, the dishwasher is a different story. I actually do control that in a more standardized way—by making sure it doesn’t function twenty-five per cent of the time some months, and then fifty per cent of the time others. I like to reserve the latter option for months with thirty-one days. Doing this requires, mathematically, more effort from me, but it brings me joy, and with everything going on these days it’s important to do things you love. I do maintain a little flexibility with what goes wrong either one-fourth or half of the time. Perhaps the dishwasher pod is never released inside the machine. Or the dishes are still soaking wet after “drying” is complete. Maybe the knives get rusty. Maybe they get flipped blade side up. I have plans to figure out a way to transfer spaghetti sauce from a plate to a coffee mug on the upper rack. Exciting times.
Speaking of, it’s time for me to turn your gas stove off. No, no—not all the way off. Just off enough that you hear a “Tell-Tale Heart”-esque ticking from across the room, tormenting you. The flame will never ignite, so you have nothing to fear, really. Just the bomb-like ticking. Also, you can’t make soup tonight.
While my primary domain is the sudden-demise-and-resurrection cycle of your appliances, I have some extracurricular hobbies, too. That’s right—the nail that’s sticking out of your wooden floorboard—the one you keep hammering in? I’m clawing it back out, baby! The gophers that have made your back yard the Penn Station of the gopher world? Somehow, also me!
I make nothing but discordant decisions. I don’t simply throw caution to the wind, I punt it into a tornado of fire, which you’ll never know is coming because I’ve disabled the fire alarm. I live every day like it’s your last. I have one god, and her name is Chaos.
But, please, go ahead and try unplugging and replugging again. ♦
