Day 9: The Devil Is In The Microwave

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I handed over the house keys and told them to do as they please with the bits and bobs I'd left in there, I won't dock their deposit.

Good luck with the old hunk-of-junk microwave, though—it never takes the hint.

Before long, they'll feel like they're being watched, the fusebox'll blow and the mircowave'll be flapping its door in sick excitement, and likely enough levitating above the bench.

I hope it isn't waiting for me in my new place. Please let me be done getting bruised and scraped when that thing goes ding in the night.

 Please let me be done getting bruised and scraped when that thing goes ding in the night

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