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I recently bought a Roomba, thinking it would revolutionize my cleaning routine. Turns out, it just has a talent for finding the one Lego piece I missed, and then it stages a protest by refusing to move until I rescue it. It's like a tiny, automated labor union for neglected toys.
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I recently realized that my refrigerator is a time machine. I mean, you put leftovers in there, and suddenly, it's a week later. It's like a culinary DeLorean, turning yesterday's pizza into tomorrow's surprise lunch.
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Why do we always lose one sock in the laundry? Is there a secret society of rogue socks plotting their escape? I imagine them having their own version of "The Great Escape," but instead of tunnels, they use dryer vents.
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You ever notice how a dishwasher is like a game of Tetris for adults? You spend more time trying to fit everything in perfectly than actually washing the dishes. And just like in Tetris, if you don't stack it right, you'll end up with a mess!
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My oven has a self-cleaning option, but every time I use it, I feel like it's judging me. Like, "Oh, so you finally decided to clean up, huh?" I'm just waiting for it to start clapping sarcastically when it's done.
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Why do we even have a junk drawer? It's like the Bermuda Triangle of the kitchen. You put something in there, and it disappears into a black hole. Need a paperclip? Sure, just dive into the junk drawer and hope you come out with all your fingers intact.
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I've come to the conclusion that the dust bunnies under my bed are training for a marathon. I mean, they've been there for years, multiplying and getting faster every time I try to sweep them away. I'm starting to think I might have the Usain Bolt of dust bunnies hiding under there.
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You know you're an adult when you get excited about a new sponge for the kitchen. It's like, "Look at those scrubbing bristles! This is the Ferrari of cleaning utensils." Adulthood: where the thrill of domesticity knows no bounds.
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Have you ever tried to fold a fitted sheet? It's like trying to fold a fitted sheet is a test to see if you qualify for adulthood. If you can conquer the fitted sheet, you're officially an adult. If not, well, you're stuck in perpetual adolescence.
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Laundry day is like a fashion show for your underwear. You stand there, looking at your drawer, and think, "What statement am I making today? Classic white or adventurous polka dots?" Because you never know when you might get hit by a bus and end up in the ER with your unmentionables on display.
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