Is it only me that can’t help thinking of the David Cronenbourg version of The Fly whenever they put something in the microwave? I keep thinking that Jeff Goldblum is going to jump out and monologue at me whilst creepily waving his hands and touching my shoulder. Then, my coffee will disappear and reappear in another microwave on a different floor, horribly melded with the cup into a monster that is so against nature it can neither hold coffee nor be drunk. The unfortunate mutant will stumble out, mildly startling the man who was standing there waiting to heat up his noodles, and expire dramatically in a spray of caffeine. And I’ll have to get another cup.
Perhaps Jeff Goldblum would get me a cup, though he’d probably put his fingers all over it.
I don’t have a microwave at home right now, but my new apartment does. Will this turn me even lazier than I am now? I haven’t actually had one in my primary residence since I left my parents’ house; it was threatening to turn me into the Leftover King even then. Now, of course, I just eat cold leftovers, which is much more respectable.
In my list of things that I will never do, “buy a microwaveable ready meal” comes just underneath “buy an SUV”, and just above “go to another retro disco club”.