Trigger Warning: The content may not be suitable for children or those with a fragile psyche
A Toaster
My toaster is a liar. I entrust it with the items that I need for the continuation of my existence and it betrays me. It changes the time it takes to toast. I suspect it has a deep hatred towards me because I am conscious and it is not. That's probably why it changes the time it takes to make my toast. I select “Five” on the button of the toaster that dictates time. It does not give me five pieces of time. Once it took four minutes and thirty-two seconds; another time it took five minutes and five seconds. I require consistency.
Without consistency, the atoms that make up this world wouldn’t know how to grab on to each other and everything would fall apart.
I ask my friend to come over and help me.
He collects his fingernail clippings in tiny plastic bags and makes dolls out of them. He numbers his dolls with a black Sharpie, so he won’t forget. He’s just the kind of person who will know what to do about a lying toaster.
“Why is your toaster lying?” he asks.
“It is jealous of me.”
“That makes sense. Your toaster lives in a lower realm of being. It's only fair for it to be jealous of you.”
“What should I do?” I ask.
“I had a similar problem with a bicycle once. It was terribly angry at me. It constantly devised plans to do away with me.”
“What did you do?”
“I chopped it up into tiny pieces, pieces so small that the bike could no longer believe it was a bike. A bike with no identity has a hard time planning to kill you.”
“Will I have to do that to my toaster?”
“I don’t think so, your situation is less serious.”
We take the toaster apart. The toaster can’t do anything. The toaster can’t lie when it's reduced to its components.
One of its components is a computer.
“Why does the toaster have a computer?” I ask.
“I don’t know. There shouldn’t be a computer inside of the toaster. A toaster doesn’t need a computer.”
Computers aren’t for toasters. Computers are for predicting the trends of the stock market or reading emails, not for the insides of toasters. The computer is why the toaster is lying.
We drive to the supermarket. Inside, we buy a large bottle of drain cleaner. We also buy two oranges. We drive back. We fill a glass bowl with drain cleaner and put the computer inside. It dissolves in a few hours. There is no difference between the computer and the drain cleaner anymore.
“That should solve the problem,” he says.
“Yes.”
We put the toaster back together without the computer that is now only a small part of the drain cleaner living inside a glass bowl. I turn the toaster on. I select the button marked “Five.” It does not work. The toaster does nothing at all.
“The toaster is broken,” I say.
“But it isn’t lying.”
“No, it isn’t lying.”
It is a nice day outside.
The clouds drift lazily by, whispering prayers and condolences for the death of my lying toaster.
END
Fish
I am a child and my uncle has bought me a goldfish. A goldfish is the kind of thing you give a child. To keep in a glass jar. To look at. My uncle did not buy the right kind of goldfish. It is the kind made to be fed to other, larger, fish. It does not know how to live. I watch it swim weakly around its bowl for two days before it dies.
I will not pick it up.
My brother goes on a field trip to a market and brings home a live fish. My mother has no desire to kill and butcher the fish. She fills the sink with water. She places the fish in the sink.
The fish does not want to be in the sink. It is not a sink kind of fish. It is a lake or pond kind of fish. It has no idea what to do inside of a sink. It meanders around its confines with futile resignation, refusing to eat any of the pieces of bread I eagerly bring it.
My mother washes dishes next to the fish.
My mother cooks our meals next to the fish.
She is looking forward to when the fish dies, so she won’t have to look at it anymore.
I am at the doctor’s office with my mother. I do not like asking questions. She is here so she can ask questions for me. The waiting room is very white. There is a fish tank in the corner of the waiting room. I walk over to the fish tank. There is a small group of children next to the fish tank. The fish tank is here for children.
Watching colorful fish drift among fake kelp while waiting for your mother to call your name so you may see the doctor, who will fix whatever is wrong with you, is a child-like activity.
I am not a child.
The fish tank has not been cleaned in a while. A dead fish floats at the top, moving slightly as the occasional bubble caresses its corpse.
My name is called.
The office is small. There are two chairs. I am given a form to fill out. Part of the form asks me how I’m feeling. Part of the form asks me how many drinks I have a day. I fill out the form. The doctor takes the form.
“That’s a lot of alcohol,” says the doctor.
“I know,” I say.
My mother looks very tired.
“He has an infection on his arm,” says my mother.
“He hasn’t been feeling well,” says my mother.
“The fingers on his left hand are sometimes numb,” says my mother.
I look around the room.
On one of the walls is a poster which describes how to read blood pressure.
Less than 120 and less than 80 is normal. This text is in a green box. Green is a friendly color. It means things are going well.
Higher than 180 or higher than 120 is a deep red. This is a dangerous color. It means something terrible is happening. If your blood pressure is that color, the test must be readministered. Just in case. To double check that your body isn’t falling apart.
Above this chart is a drawing of a person having their blood pressure measured. The person doesn’t have a gender. The person doesn’t have a face. Half of the person is a light white, and half of the person is a dark brown.
The person is whomever you desire.
Now
Isn’t
That
Nice
END
