A late-20s admin-type with creative aspirations stands at her office’s microwave and fumes silently at the leftovers therein.
“I can’t believe it’s going to take two minutes and thirty fucking seconds for this shit to heat up. Does it not know that I’m BUSY?
BitchCurry better RECOGNIZE!”
Whatever, shortly after that it was hot enough to eat. I, too, can command the wind, sir.