Oh god, please! Someone pick me up and buy me! You there, with the faux-vintage t-shirt and American Eagle flipflops! I’m only ten dollars! I’m the perfect pick to cook Hot Pockets, though I must admit that my previous owner decided to play Frisbee with my rotating glass plate after drinking a fifth of Cossack Vodka, and got kicked out for accidentally hitting a PSafe officer with it. My rotating plate evenly distributed heat and made sure that his Pizza Bagel Bites were always perfect!
I’ve been on this college circuit for far too long, now. The…“things”…that people like to “cook”…they cake to my interior walls and my mind alike. All the nacho cheese, overboiled ramen, and pastry fillings…it’s all one solid black lump of preservatives and shame now. And whoever discovered that microwaving Peeps was so novel deserves to be freeze-dried. The last time I saw soap was when someone decided to put a bar in me and cook it up. It looked like Jabba the Hutt made out of semen. It’s been so long, I should have molded over by now. At least then I would have been tossed out to die, just like my father, who met his merciful end in a fraternity parking lot to a pick-axe.
I’m an appliance of peace. I never intended to hurt anyone! Have I been cast with this lot of half-broken mini-fridges, bare-wired appliances, and ratty beer t-shirts because of the mouths I’ve burned with superheated cheese? Must I rust in this purgatory called Mocon, while kids go out and buy their fancy “Sharp” brand microwaves from Target? I can’t live like this! Please, if anyone reading this has any mercy, you must kill me quickly. Buy me, plug me in, fill me with Usdan forks and turn me on! Kill me…Kill…me!