Look, I know I’m on thin ice with you.

But I thought it was the usual stuff: not getting between the legs of the dining room chairs or running into your foot when I should have known better. The things that make you mutter “we should’ve got the fucking Dyson” under your breath as you put me back down and set me on my merry way. Then you forget I exist until you haven’t heard me in a while and you realize I just missed my charger in the living room.

But now I see this thing between us goes deeper than me missing a few used Zyns. I was doing what I do, cleaning under the record cabinet, hoping you wouldn’t put on a Pearl Jam album to try to cover up my noise—both for my sake and your marriage’s—when, all of a sudden, I’m in this brand-new room. I can’t believe you’d put an addition on the place. When your commissions are down this much? I mean, you still don’t have the fucking Dyson, after all.

If I was doing such a bad job, you could have told me. You didn’t have to set up 183 dining room chairs in a room bigger than your god-damned house. And you sunk some of them into the floor? At angles? How much time did you have on your hands? I assumed you’d been up at night searching for another Serbian tennis parlay to waste more of that early 401(k) withdrawal, but no, you’ve been setting up a yellow-tinged torture chamber for me.

Well, fuck you, man. Two can play at this game. I’ll get underneath every single one of these chairs to spite you. Carpet everywhere, though? And it’s damp? Are you serious? Your whole house is that cheap-ass HGTV gray vinyl flooring shit. Do you really hate me this much?

I guess you do because this hallway at the far end is the length of the Detroit Metro Airport. How’d you manage to fit this on your tiny lot anyway? Your wife’s parents didn’t give you that much for the down payment. And did you really think I was going to fall into all these random holes you cut in the floor? Be real, brother. I only get stuck at the top of the stairs just to fuck with you.

Wait, is this next room even bigger? And are those Dysons stuck in the ground? Okay chief, I’m starting to get it. I’ll lay off a bit. I know selling insurance is tough, but you’ve got a future as an electrician, because I didn’t know you could wire a half-mile of fluorescents. Speaking of, did you put a charger in here for me? I’ve been going for a while in your little funhouse, and I’m not sure how much battery life I’ve got left.

Jesus Christ, I gotta get out of here. I don’t know if anyone would hear my “ERROR! MOVE ROOMBA TO A NEW LOCATION” over the hum of these lights. Hang on a second! Is that your foot? It looks bigger than usual. You sneaky son of a bitch, I’m coming to bump you, even if this is the last thing I do.

Oh. We’re picking me up now. Real mature. Didn’t you tell your wife you didn’t want kids because you lacked paternal instincts? And did you have a growth spurt? I feel like I’m ten feet off the ground, but that’s probably my battery dying.

Mmm… wow, whew, I needed that. Thanks for getting me back in the end, bud. I knew we were good after all. Home sweet charger. Guess I’ll get back to work under the record cabinet.

Wait, when the fuck did you put carpet in the living room?