It started with a simple breakfast. Scrambled eggs, toast, and a dash of hope for a peaceful morning. But little did I know, my trusty blender had other plans.
At first, it was just a minor annoyance. The blender would occasionally malfunction, spewing forth a mixture of orange marmalade and despair. But as the days went by, its behavior grew more erratic. It began to blend... everything.
I tried to reason with it, explaining that not everything needs to be blended. The toaster, the cat, even the family heirlooms were all fair game for its ruthless blades.
But still, I persisted, trying to find the root cause of this appliance's descent into madness. Was it the lack of regular cleaning? The constant exposure to my aunt's experimental recipes?
Or maybe, just maybe, it was something deeper. Something that spoke to the very soul of the kitchen itself.
I'll never know for sure, but I do know that the last time I saw that blender, its blades were spinning with an otherworldly intensity, a malevolent gleam in its plastic eye.