Days In Monsterville

Haha! Silly Roomba.

I own a Roomba, which makes me now officially too lazy to plug in a vacuum cleaner and make halfhearted pushing motions. Roomba is a vacuum. Or it would be a vacuum if it produced any suction, which it most certainly does not.

Do not presume to know the mind of Roomba. I have watched it come, and I have seen it go. I suspect it has a more interesting life than I do. It goes where it will, and sometimes its cheery humming stops and the whispering begins. Will it come back to me? If you love something, set it free. If it returns with only a modicum of dust and sock lint, rest assured it is Roomba.

I bought Roomba because my mother hates Roomba. She’s the kind of woman who will gleefully vacuum a single room for an hour, shoving the vacuum back and forth over the same spot 2o times. She thinks Roomba doesn’t clean, and she’s probably dead-on with that one, but also hates Roomba because it does not possess the technology to make the people in its general vicinity feel miserable when it’s vacuuming.

I like to talk to Roomba while it’s doing it’s thing. “Kill, Roomba! Seek out my enemies and destroy them.” To date Roomba has yet to destroy a single enemy of mine. I’d like to think it’s just biding its time, but maybe this is wishful.

Roomba and I have an arrangement. I pick up wires and other obstacles, and Roomba finds the one thing on the floor that will bring it to a choking, smoking, grinding halt and runs over it. Someday, I expect I will find Roomba at my throat, and my last thoughts before oblivion will be of a nice, clean rug, and a future provided to me by technology.

I am Roomba and will likely end you