The sink is now a load-bearing structure.
At this point, the plates are paying rent.
Everyone's hungry. Nobody's helping.
Domestic tools for people who have already answered “what's for dinner?” three times.
These dishes are soaking in denial.
A completely legitimate cleaning technique. According to us.
This kitchen has two settings: museum and crime scene.
There is no third setting. We checked.
I just cleaned this. What the actual fuck?
A moving tribute to the seven minutes it stayed clean.
We own fourteen coffee mugs and three forks.
Somewhere, a fork is living its best life.
The dishwasher is full. So is my resentment.
One of these can be emptied with a button.
I have cooked once. The kitchen has filed a complaint.
Dinner went well. The kitchen has retained counsel.
If you see me cleaning, someone important is coming.
Nothing motivates like an impending witness.
Nobody knows what happened to the good spatula.
Last seen being used for something deeply inappropriate.
This towel has seen things the health department shouldn't.
We suggest a discreet retirement. Possibly witness protection.
Do not critique food made by someone holding 400 degrees.
Feedback is best delivered from another postcode.
The recipe said 20 minutes. That was a personal attack.
Twenty minutes, plus a brief emotional collapse.
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