ERROR!!! it flashed in bold, angry red letters. I stepped off the scale, kicked it gently, rearranged the fat on my body, and stepped back on. ERROR! it screamed in an accusatory tone with a tinge of petulant whining.
Had it been able to utter anything other than the rather rude ERROR message, I’m sure it would have called me an obese ignorant slut. I disagree with the slut accusation. There is no defense for ignorant and obese. Guilty as charged.
Had it not been disabled from the sheer full force of my weight, it might have flipped over and turned its back on me in disgust, continually flashing ERROR ERROR ERROR to the tile floor below.
But no, it said nothing, did nothing. I stepped off and the message disappeared. I didn’t have enough courage to try it a third time. I got the message.
Yes, I’m mired and suffering the consequences of the error my ways. And I’ve got the feeling that tonight, when I’m trying to sleep, I’m going to hear that wretched piece of metal in my bathroom, a voice that sounds like Satan, saying, “ERROR, ERROR, ERROR . . . ”
I may need to kill the thing.