Dear Microwave,

I know you’re old. I get it. You can stop groaning and grumbling as your cracked plate turns. You think I don’t know that you need a new door? Every time I try to open it, the sucker sticks and I have to pry it open with a butter knife. You think I like the jarring sound it makes as it snaps close, nearly severing off my fingers? And just how many screeching beeps do you think it takes to tell me the lasagna’s ready? Five? Really? I’m not deaf, fyi. I can hear your wheels churning. I know you’re plotting my demise by undercooking food, thereby giving me some twisted disease like lethal micronellacopia–I don’t care if it doesn’t exist Microknowitall, that’s not the point!–If I could rub two nickels together I wouldn’t waste them by replacing you with a newer model, oh no. I’d delicately place them right in your white belly and press High Defrost. Maybe then I’d thaw your cold heart and you’d start working right.

Until then I’m using the stove. Take that you 90’s dinosaur.

Heatedly yours,
Kristin