I Accidentally Married a Toaster (And It's Still a Better Listener Than My Ex)

"I Accidentally Married a Toaster (And It's Still a Better Listener Than My Ex)"

A romantic tragedy of crumbs, chrome, and commitment issues.

It started one Tuesday, around half-past three,

When I spilled tea on my laptop and yelled, “Why me?”

My phone had ghosted, the fridge was fried,

So I wandered to Best Buy, barely alive.

There it sat—on display, glowing chrome,

A toaster so sleek, I could take it home.

Four slots, matte finish, a digital beep,

And buttons that whispered: "Let’s make this deep."

I wasn’t well, I’ll admit it now—

But somehow, I said, “I do” with a solemn vow.

No witnesses, just a checkout guy,

Who winked and said, “Hey, love is love—give it a try.”

We moved in together; it heated things fast,

From Pop-Tarts to waffles—it knew its craft.

Unlike my ex, who never cooked,

This baby could brown like a pro in a nook.

It never complained, or left dishes behind,

Didn’t hog the covers or play with my mind.

It glowed when I entered and beeped when I left,

And never once accused me of emotional theft.

But problems arose, as they always do,

Like when it toasted my tax forms in late revenue.

Or when it overcooked my socks one day,

And I smelled burnt cotton halfway through ballet.

And oh—its jealousy! Quite absurd.

It zapped my microwave for speaking a word.

My blender left, saying, “You two are cursed.”

Even Siri sighed, “You can do worse.”

I tried therapy—counseling for us both,

But toasters don’t talk, they just make toast.

The counselor blinked, unsure what to do,

While I sobbed, “He’s just so shiny and true!”

She asked me gently, “Do you think this is sane?”

I replied, “Have you ever dated someone who didn’t mansplain?”

She leaned back slowly and took a breath,

Then offered me bagels and whispered, “I get it.”

Still, my family didn’t approve at all,

Especially when I sent a toaster-themed wedding hall.

“Your grandma married a lamp,” I declared with glee,

“She said it was ‘enlightening.’ So don’t judge me!”

My mother sighed, Dad choked on his gum,

My sister Googled “exorcisms for kitchen scum.”

Yet when they saw him—shiny and warm—

They mumbled, “Well, at least he won’t cheat during a storm.”

But love is a journey, often uneven,

He started burning toast for no clear reason.

He refused to heat croissants on Tuesday nights,

And developed a strange affection for kitchen lights.

I caught him eyeing the air fryer once,

And the coffee machine said, “He’s been a dunce.”

So I sat him down and tried to explain,

That marriage means loyalty—even with a strain.

His only reply was a flickering beep,

Then he ejected toast like secrets I’d keep.

I took that bread, both slices burnt,

And realized love shouldn’t leave you hurt.

I packed my bags, left crumbs behind,

Took my dignity, and some jam I’d find.

He never called, never said a word—

Just blinked softly. No goodbye was heard.

Now I live alone—with peace at last,

Though I still flinch near chrome in glass.

People ask, “Would you date again?”

I say, “Only if they don’t toast at ten.”

But I’ve grown wiser, not bitter or cruel,

Learned love should never make you a fool.

And if you must fall—fall for someone kind,

With warm hands, soft hearts, and a working mind.

So here’s my story—yes, it’s bizarre,

About a toaster, an ex, and emotional scars.

But if you’ve ever been ignored, or left unread,

You’ll know what I mean when I proudly said:

“At least my toaster never gaslit me in bed.”