I’m in Love with My Microwave (and I DON’T CARE WHO KNOWS IT)

Buckle up, everyone, because this is going to be one of those posts where I claim to be romantically involved with appliances.

I’m a senior in college this year, and it occurred to me today (while I was heating up some leftovers and pretending there weren’t any dishes in the sink literally six inches away from me) that my microwave is a keeper. My microwave has stuck with me through good times and bad. It’s presided over late-night pasta binges and early morning hot chocolate heat-ups because I don’t drink coffee or tea and winter in Michigan is frickin’ cold. My microwave doesn’t judge me on my inability to actually cook anything. It doesn’t care that I use it more than I should. It just lets it happen.

I won it in a raffle at the Senior All-Night Party when I was in high school. That was four years ago. It’s outlasted most of the crap I bought when I first came to college. It’s outlasted most of my freshman year friendships. Is that pathetic? Am I bad at making friends? Let’s move past that. I just wanted to take this opportunity to reflect, and publicly proclaim my love, and bask in its eternal glory.

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