I entered Williams-Sonoma to buy a Turkish bath towel and exited with a $499 gourmet, 4-slice toaster. I named it Dennis. After my old drug dealer.

My coworker once asked me, “what’s the difference between between a dead baby and a toaster?” She didn’t wait for me to respond before exclaiming excitedly, “you can’t fuck a toaster.” I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe.

The joke no longer amuses me. I wish I could fuck a toaster. I wish I could fuck Dennis.

I’m in love with Dennis, but he doesn’t love me back. He thinks humans are strange (and not in a good way). I wish he’d understand that I’m not like other humans.

I’m deep, I whispered to him in the dark. I’m profound. I read epistemological philosophy on the subway and got an A minus in multivariable calculus.

“Shut up slut,” Dennis drawled. “I’m trying to sleep.”

I grabbed him by his stainless steel sides and screamed in frustration, “you don’t need sleep! You’re a toaster!”

Although he abuses me, I still have diamonds in my eyes for Dennis. He may not be the only love of my life, but he is the love of my life.

“You will decay and die,” he reminds me over breakfast, “such is the fate of hoes.”

I know he’s right. But I hope he’ll remember me—the mornings we spent together over coffee and bagels, the way I carried him home in the rain, not letting his cardboard box get wet; how I licked burnt crumbs out of his interior, making him quiver with ecstasy.

I pray to The Lord I’ll live on in Dennis’ memory.