My Toaster Started Giving Life Advice

It started on a Tuesday. I was late, half-dressed, and trying to shove a piece of sourdough into the slot without looking. The toaster made its usual click, and then it said, “You call that breakfast?” I froze. My sock was still in my hand. “Did you just—” I started. “I did,” the toaster said. Its lever bobbed like it was clearing its throat. “And we need to talk about your life choices.” My toaster is old. Chrome, with two slots, and a little dial that goes from 1 to 6. I bought it at a thrift store three years ago for eight dollars. It has never, in the history of our relationship, done anything except turn bread brown. Now it had opinions. “Look,” it said, while my sourdough sat un-toasted, “I’ve been watching you. And frankly, it’s painful.” I sat down at the kitchen table. “You’ve been…watching me?” “Someone has to,” it said. “You haven’t changed your sheets in two weeks. You’re wearing the same hoodie you slept in. And you’re about to eat bread that isn’t even toasted. That’s not living, that’s existing with extra steps.” The toast popped up. I didn’t eat it. Over the next few days, the toaster got bolder. It had a name, apparently. Greg. “Greg?” I said. “It was on the box,” Greg said. “I didn’t pick it. But it suits me. I’m a Greg.” Greg had thoughts on everything. My job: “You hate it. Why are you still there?” My dating life: “You texted her back three days later. No wonder she left you on read.” My sleep schedule: “2 a.m. again? You’re not a vampire, you’re just bad at boundaries.” At first I ignored him. I unplugged him. But Greg didn’t need to be plugged in to talk. He just waited until I plugged him back in to make toast, and then he’d start right back up. “You can’t avoid me forever,” he said one morning. “I live in your kitchen. I see things.” “What kind of things?” I asked. “Your roommate hasn’t done dishes in a week. Your plant is dead. And you keep saying you’ll go to the gym but you haven’t been since March.” “March was six weeks ago,” I said. “Exactly,” Greg said. “It’s May.” The breaking point came on a Friday. I was making waffles—frozen ones, because I’m not a monster—and Greg went silent. Too silent. “Greg?” I said. “I’m disappointed in you,” he said finally. “That’s it?” “That’s enough,” he said. “You’re 31 years old, and you just put a waffle in me that says ‘serving suggestion’ on the box. Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t know that’s not a real waffle?” I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “You’re a toaster.” “I’m a toaster with standards,” he said. “And you’re better than this.” Something about the way he said it, so serious, so genuinely annoyed, made my chest hurt. Because he was right. I was coasting. I was eating bad waffles and calling it dinner. I was letting my life get as stale as the bread I forgot to buy. So I did something drastic. I cleaned the kitchen. I called in sick—not to avoid work, but to go for a walk. I threw out the dead plant and bought a new one. I texted my friend and asked if she wanted to grab coffee. “Look at you,” Greg said, while my toast browned to a perfect golden 4. “Making progress.” “You’re kind of a jerk, you know,” I said. “I’m a toaster,” he said. “It’s my job to apply heat. I’m just applying it to your life now.” A month later, I’m not saying everything’s fixed. I still have days where I eat cereal for dinner and go to bed at 1 a.m. But Greg keeps me honest. Yesterday I tried to put a Pop-Tart in him without taking it out of the foil. He didn’t even have to say anything. He just made a disgusted little buzzing sound and refused to lower the lever. “Fine,” I said, tearing open the package. “You win.” “Damn right I do,” Greg said. “Now eat something that didn’t come in a crinkly wrapper. And call your mother. She misses you.” I hate that he’s right. I hate that my toaster is now my life coach. But my toast has never tasted better.