The Unholy Ecosystem in My Microwave

This morning, I opened the microwave in our lower level and immediately questioned every decision I’ve made since 2003.

Now, for context: this microwave isn’t our main character. It’s more of a supporting cast member. Its role? Strictly for reheating my oversized coffees—the ones my husband thoughtfully makes me, assuming I can finish 16 ounces of anything without getting distracted by, say, a dust bunny, a DIY idea, or the sudden urge to alphabetize the names of all my plants in my garden.

So I opened the door expecting lukewarm coffee vibes.

Instead, I found a full-blown ecosystem.

There, in my once-cheerful orange mug, was a food blob that had long since given up on being edible. It had transformed—no, ascended—into something unholy. It looked like it belonged in the show, “The Last of Us”. A furry, mountainous life form, frosted with shades of despair and smelling like a compost bin’s evil twin.

Reader, I do not know what this was. I genuinely have no memory of putting it there. But judging by the topography, it has been evolving for some time.

It had peaks. Valleys. Possibly a zip code.

The smell hit first—like expired cheese met an old sponge at a sauna and decided to colonize. The texture was… ambitious. And there was a suspicious liquid at the bottom that I’m 84% sure could dissolve a spoon.

What was this? A bite of leftover something I meant to finish? One of my “tiny meals in a mug” because I eat like a bird? A forgotten midnight snack with grand dreams and no follow-through?

We may never know.

But what I do know is this: the mug is soaking in a bleach bath. I’m soaking in existential questions. And this entire experience is now part of the “things I didn’t plan to deal with today but will absolutely write about” file.

So, moral of the story?

Always label your leftovers.

And maybe… don’t trust a microwave that lives on a different floor.

– The Wallflower