Years ago, I saw someone, with no evidence of good intention, try to microwave a banana for five full minutes. I didn’t understand his game plan, I still don't, but I was intrigued. His actions were cavalier. He moved with the confidence of a serial killer. He had done this before. Not only was I the only witness, but I was the only one of us who was sane.
The inevitable came faster than expected. The banana popped apart quickly, releasing outlandish whimpers as we sat silently. I focused on a still, unwavering spot on the wall in front of me and did my best to block out the horror.
By the three minute mark, we had a legitimate fire hazard on our hands. He remained unfazed. As the room filled with a light smoke, I found comfort in knowing the exact location of the fire escape. There was an unjustifiable level of neglect taking place. The scenario quickly lost its appeal and I no longer wanted to share a room with a madman. Unfortunately, leaving was not an option – I knew what he was capable of.
Somehow, the thickening smog snapped the killer out of his trance.
He leaped out of his seat towards the microwave, swinging the door open to find his victim sprawled out in a blackened, steaming mess. Judging by his grimace, this is not what he expected. It was only then that I realized that none of this was intentional.
“Oh no,” he shouted, “my banana!”
Oh no indeed.