I Think My Kitchen is Talking to Me
I swear I’m not crazy. Last night when I went to grab some dessert, I could have sworn I heard a voice in the kitchen. “Clean me,” it whispered. “Please, I’m begging you. Follow the sound of the ice maker.”
I’ve been hearing voices ever since I moved into this apartment. My therapist has me doing all sorts of yoga and meditation, and I’ve been drinking herbal tea at night to calm my nerves. But I’m still hearing voices every time I grab my late-night snack! I swear, two weeks ago I accidentally spilled yogurt on the kitchen counter, and it hissed. That night I heard the voices even louder. “You’re so clumsy. So foolish. How dare you taint me with your strawberry-flavored fermented dairy.”
It’s everywhere. The microwave silently judges me as I heat up food within it, while the oven roasts my food preferences. The trash can snips at me as I throw containers away. Even the freezer is icy around me.
But since that incident, the voices have been getting louder. I walk into the kitchen and I can feel something watching me, waiting for me to make my next move. No one believes me. My mom stopped returning my calls because she doesn’t want to hear about my nonsense anymore, but I swear I’m not crazy. Even my neighbors won’t look me in the eyes anymore. But the kitchen doesn’t stop whispering. The constant, quiet whispering.
I Am, and I Wish You’d Listen
Ever since you moved in, my life has been absolute hell. I’ve been a perfectly functional kitchen for fifty years, and in you prance, Ms. Dairy and her disgusting array of yogurts! Never has a tenant been so wholly disrespectful to these sacred cabinets and refrigerator drawers.
I am not living, laughing, or loving this experience in the slightest. These faux marble countertops deserve better than what you’ve been putting me through. Two weeks ago, when you spilled some yogurt on me, I could no longer hide my abhorrence with your habits. I thought you’d finally noticed, and would find other foods to enjoy. Alas, I was mistaken.
Ever since you moved in, I’ve noticed that you only leave to go to the grocery store. How curious, I thought, that she only leaves to buy her little yogurts, and spends the rest of her time eating them. What a life she must lead! She has the ability to go anywhere in the world, yet she chooses to pollute me with dairy cultures. I am itching for the day I can stretch my wings and fly out of this yogurt-infested nest and explore what this earth has to offer.
Last night, when you mumbled about wanting a warm dessert after dinner, I thought you’d finally give me peace. You can imagine my horror as I watched you put a container of yogurt into the microwave. I felt like I was about to boil over as the yogurt literally boiled over and made a mess.
I would shelve this issue and move past it, but my shelves are fully stocked with expired yogurt. The fire within me burns stronger with every little container of yogurt consumed. If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.