On the counter in my kitchen, I have a retro-looking, shiny toaster. Which I've personally used, uh, never. Beside it is the knife block, where I keep all my exquisite culinary instruments. Which I use, basically, to cut lemons and limes for drinks, sadly. (Or, would be handy if I happen to be in the kitchen when some dude breaks into my house wearing a black robe and a mask inspired by Edvard Munch).
Anyway, I had this ultra-realistic dream last night where I wander downstairs to grab a bottled water, and hear a muffled voice talking to me. I flip on a lamp, only to find that my shiny toaster is talking to me. The words are coming out of the slots on top, which are moving like lips. The toaster is suggesting that I grab one of the knives from the block. Because I always follow the advice of anthropomorphic household appliances, I pull the knife and out wander into the living room, where I find my two cats sitting on the top of an armchair looking at me like I'm crazy. Then I wake up. (And by the term "ultra-realistic," I meant that the dream seemed very real as I was dreaming it. Not that I find talking toasters to be realistic. But people have organized large scale economic and religious ponzi schemes around far less believable things, mind you).
After I woke up, I was still craving that bottled water, so I went downstairs and got one, and actually stared at my toaster for a while. Not surprisingly, no conversation ensued.
So have I been watching too much Battlestar Galactica? Was I coerced by toast as a child? Have I finally gone over the fucking edge? Did I have one whiskey too many last night? Am I a lunatic for actually sharing this on a blog? Uh, I'm not sure of the answers to any of those questions. If my toaster tells me tonight, I'll let you know.