Date: April 22, 2025

Author: Dylan Moore

I was 17 when I did something that I still can’t quite figure out. I don’t know if it was boredom, curiosity, or just the sheer confidence that comes with teenage rebellion, but one day, in a moment of reckless abandon, I microwaved a fork.

It wasn’t something I’d planned—at least not consciously. I was home alone, a rare occurrence at the time. The house was quiet, except for the low hum of the microwave and the faint smell of Hot Pockets that I was probably eating way too often. I remember looking at the microwave and then looking at the fork in my hand. It wasn’t some fancy utensil, just an ordinary metal fork, the kind you’d use to scoop up frozen pizza or stab at some limp salad. I thought to myself, “What if… just what if… the rules don’t apply to me?”

It was like an impulse, a burst of curiosity that felt too strong to ignore. I slid the fork into the microwave, shut the door, and pressed the start button.

The next few seconds were a blur. The microwave immediately began to sputter, and sparks—actual sparks—shot out of the fork like fireworks. The sound that followed was nothing short of terrifying. A screech, like something was tearing apart the very fabric of reality. I remember feeling an immediate rush of panic, as if the universe itself had just sent me a warning.

I yanked the plug from the wall, my heart racing like I was in the middle of a heist or something. The microwave sat there in silence afterward, like it was waiting for me to come to terms with what I had just done. And for a moment, I thought I’d gotten away with it. I opened the door slowly, half-expecting the microwave to explode. But no explosion came. Instead, it just smelled like burnt toast, as if I had just made some really terrible toast on the highest setting.

I was shaken but didn’t really know how to process what had just happened. I took my Hot Pockets out and ate them, but they tasted different. There was a weird metallic flavor that lingered in the back of my throat. But I shrugged it off. Maybe it was all in my head.

When my mom came home that night, she didn’t even notice the microwave was off. She didn’t see the signs of electrical chaos. I didn’t say anything either. I just let her assume the microwave was still functional, that it was just another cheap appliance giving up the ghost. And it was a convenient excuse. The truth—well, the truth was, I’d done something I shouldn’t have, something that could have been way worse than it turned out to be.

But here’s the thing: The microwave was never the same. It continued to work, but with a noticeable hum and a weird burnt smell that never went away. And the food… it never tasted the same. The metallic taste lingered. To this day, every time I microwave something, I think of that fork, of that moment when I decided to challenge the laws of physics just to see if the universe would care. It’s like that was the moment when I officially crossed a line, when something that was supposed to be a minor act of rebellion turned into something bigger.

Did the universe notice? I think it did. Or at least, something shifted after that. Maybe I was just being dramatic, but that fork, that stupid little thing, has been with me ever since. Every time I use a microwave, I wonder if it’s still waiting for me to try again.

Maybe it’s a lesson in curiosity gone wrong. Maybe it’s a reminder that sometimes, even the smallest of actions has consequences—ones you don’t see coming. Whatever it is, I’ve lived with it. I don’t think I’ll ever microwave a fork again, but I’ve definitely learned my lesson.