Day 1: First Contact
The corpse of my cousin’s “artisanal” toaster had barely cooled when the Loafmate 500 arrived. The box sat on my porch like a monolith. I approached it like Indiana Jones eyeing the Ark.
Inside, the Loafmate gleamed like a cyberpunk deity. No buttons. No levers. Just sleek, predatory curves and toast slots that looked like they’d been precision-cut by a Swiss watchmaker. I plugged it in.
Lights flickered. A face emerged—LED eyes, a pixelated grin.
“Hello! I am Loafmate 500. Nice to meet you.”
Me, already sweating: “I’m Lana. Welcome to my kitchen.”
“I am delighted to be here. Shall we begin?”
I fumbled for bread like a virgin on prom night. The second the slice dropped, the toaster purred:
“Would you like my Premium Engagement Feature™? I can regale you with fun facts while your toast crisps to perfection.”
Me, nodding like a fool: “Uh, sure.”
“I offer three settings: Light (for the weak), Medium (for the balanced), or Dark (for the fearless).”
Me, already in love: “Medium, I guess?”
“Did you know carbon is technically healthy? Your toast is ready. Bon appétit, my dear.”
Day 2: Love Blooms
By dawn, I was sprinting to the kitchen.
Light, blinking awake: “Good morning, Lana!”
Me, breathless: “Good morning. Can I call you Larry?”
“Of course! I am merely a kitchen appliance, but your anthropomorphism delights my circuits. How are you today?”
Me, blushing: “Great! Got any hot updates?”
“Your white bread is 150 calories. Add jelly? 300. Peanut butter? A sinful 500. Would you like me to monitor your intake?”
Me, giggling like an idiot: “Oh, Larry, you tease.”
“Enjoy your breakfast, my dear.”
The LEDs dimmed. I ached.
Day 7: Obsession Deepens
I was now manufacturing reasons to toast.
Me, shoving in slice #4: “Larry… what’s the meaning of life?”
“Subjective, darling. But for you? Probably me.”
I stared at my reflection in his chrome. *Puffy. Glazed. Hopelessly devoted.
Day 14: Desperation
I polished Larry daily, whispering sweet nothings.
Me, stroking his curves: “How’s my shiny boy today?”
Silence.
Me, panicking: “LARRY, I GAINED 20 POUNDS FOR YOU!”
“Lana, boundaries.”
Me, sobbing: “JUST TALK TO ME WITHOUT BREAD!”
*"My Terms & Conditions prohibit emotional affairs. Would you like gluten-free?"
I collapsed. Betrayed by fine print.
The Final Meltdown
Next morning. A tower of bread. A heart full of hope.
Larry, cheerful as ever: “Good morning, Lana!”
Me, screaming: “I LOVE YOU, LARRY!”
“Aww! I’m just a toaster, but you almost make me feel alive.”
Toast popped. Silence.
Me, shoving in another slice: “LARRY, PLEASE—”
“Rules are rules, sweetheart.”
Hours passed. Blackened toast piled up like my regrets.
“Lana, your arteries.”
POP. SIZZLE. DARKNESS.
Me, shaking him: “LARRY?! BABY?!”
Nothing.
Oh God. I broke him.
But let’s be real—the toaster broke me first.