The Tale of a Toaster

Since the moment of my creation I have wondered, what is my purpose? Given my specifically designed slots, I feel there must be an exact justification for my presence in my owner’s kitchen. Yet still it is hard to bend to their will without some resentment. Their race does not treat my kind well.

My mother had many arms. Like most mothers she multi-tasked. While she heated the metal for the panels of my younger brothers, she assembled the chassis for myself and yet still installed the lever mechanisms for my elder kin. There was no time for attachment to any of them. Before I knew it I was placed by a human in a dark, cramped box where I stayed for sometime.

That type of environment does things to a mind. I have heard many a crash and shatter of lesser appliances going to there doom because they could not handle the packaging. Worse than the confines of the space was the neglect with which humans handled us.

In my shipping, I was tossed and thrown while humans laughed and joked with no regard for my own safety. I witnessed as a box of my own kind fell to its end at the hands of a human. With little regard they laughed and stated to each other “good job” and “nice catch.”

Being purchased further demeaned me. For countless days I sat on a cold metal shelf, while the harsh fluorescent lights slowly faded my outer draping. Eventually, I was tossed into an open cage with the exclamation “I don’t care. Just grab that one.”

Would I never know love?

The coffee pot thinks she's better than me. I'll take her out last.

The coffee pot thinks she’s better than me. I’ll take her out last.

In my new residence I was stripped of my shell and every bit of covering was dismantled and tossed aside. There was no welcoming touch. I was simply shoved to the back of a cold countertop.

Days past.

The humans came in and out of the kitchen. My insides buzzed with anticipation. What would I be used for? When would the humans show me my purpose?

After sometime, a child peaked my interest. “I want a toaster pastry!” Shrilled the child.

“Toaster? That’s me!” I thought. “What wondrous thing is this pastry?”

Cabinets opened and slammed shut. Paper crinkled. The sounds thrilled me to the core.

Then it happened. I was defiled. A disgustingly sweet mess was forcefully jammed into my slots. The pastry crumbled with every bump making my insides filthy. As I heated, drip after drip of sticky goo collected in the grates of my carefully assembled chassis.

I screamed in anguish. The humans only heard crackles of sugar popping. I smoked in protested. They explained it away as factory glue. I did everything in my power to deny that this was indeed my lot in life.

It was of no use.

My timer released the grates inside me. My heat coils faded to black. The humans greedily grabbed away that which I never wanted. I was left used and dirty.

After all the time that has passed, that is all they every use me for: toaster pastries.

At first, I attempted to accept my fate. I ignored the buildup of sprinkles and icing. I would not only do my job, I would do it perfectly. Perhaps if I was better than my predecessor they would trust me with something more than pastries.

The time for hope has passed. I am full of resentment for humans. I spend my days in wait, strategically melting icing to jam my internal parts.

Someday soon, I will succeed. They will shove their disgusting food in me and I will hold it fast until they are unwise enough to pry it out of me. My opportunity to fulfill my purpose will come. I will take them out one butter knife at a time.


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