You see a Toshiba Dual-Core Satellite Laptop. I see a panini press. This is why we need a label gun.

I mean, now that you’ve explained it, I totally get it. What I thought was an odd lettered grill area is actually the keyboard. And what I imagined to be the press is, in fact, the Toshiba’s 17.3” HD+ TruBrite LED backlit display. It all makes sense now! I was like, “Why is Greg always watching movies on his panini press?” Or “Wow, Greg must be some master hacker if he was able to turn his panini press into some sort of video conferencing device!”

I’m just sorry it took me trying to make a grilled cheese sandwich in it for us to realize our wildly different perceptions of its purpose.

Oh, sure, I remember when you got it in the mail. I remember you taking it out of the box excitedly, and I remember snippets of what you said about it. I heard “Intel Dual-Core 2.0GHz processor” and “EPEAT™ Gold” and “highest possible ranking of the acclaimed Electronic Product Environmental Assessment Tool” or something like that. But you never said anything about it being a laptop. Or I don’t remember you saying anything about it being a laptop. And when I glanced at the box, I only noticed one clear instance of the word “Laptop” but I didn’t notice what context it was in, so I was just thought, “Huh, that panini press must be compatible with laptops. How advanced!”

Clearly we share the blame here. I’m willing to admit it’s possible that I overlooked several basic laptop signifiers, if you can just admit that it’s unfair for you to buy yourself all of these new fangled gadgets without buying me the one simple one that I want and clearly need: a label gun.

Oh, really, Greg? You think this is all my fault? You think we’re “just roommates” and you don’t have to buy me things? Fine! Great! Well if that’s the case, I can’t guarantee I’m going to remember that this conversation ever happened! I can’t guarantee that you won’t come home from work and find a chicken pesto sandwich crushed inside your precious Toshiba. And when you want to yell at me about it again, I can’t guarantee that I won’t be outside, throwing that little round “Roomba” thing you’ve got parked in the corner. Because, honestly, it looks like a fat Frisbee, and there’s no label to tell me I’m wrong.

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