The Rug, the Robot, and the Slow Death of My Sanity

Let me start by saying I am not anti-technology. I embrace innovation. I believe in progress. I own a Bluetooth meat thermometer, which occasionally reminds me that I have no business cooking poultry. I have a smart lightbulb that only obeys me when it feels like it. I once tried one of those posture-correcting devices that beeps when you slouch, only to chuck it into a drawer within 48 hours because it turns out I slouch constantly and I don’t need a tiny plastic tyrant telling me so.

But no piece of technology has brought me more frustration, more existential despair, more quietly muttered threats, than my robot vacuum. And none of it would be happening if not for the rug.

Now, let’s be clear: I did not choose this rug. The rug was gifted to me by Vince, my dear friend who, for all his redeeming qualities, has the aesthetic sensibilities of a 19th-century mystic experiencing a vision in a candlelit cave. It is an aggressive rug. A violent swirl of rust orange, jaundiced yellow, and whatever color results from trying to mix despair with bad decisions. Vince, naturally, thinks it’s stunning. “This belongs in your home,” he declared upon presenting it to me, which is the kind of thing someone says when they know an item belongs nowhere but can’t bear to admit it.

Now, a stronger person might have said, “No, Vince, take this back to the dimension from which it escaped.” But unfortunately, I am weak. I value friendship. And so, the rug stayed. And with it came the problem.

Every evening, my robot vacuum attempts the same misguided quest. It sets out with optimism, whirring dutifully across my floors, until—like clockwork—it reaches the rug. And then? Tragedy. The fringe wraps around its little brushes like an octopus seizing its prey. The motor groans in distress. It flails, it spins, it beeps. I, like a fool, rush to untangle it, only for it to immediately do the exact same thing again. It is as if it wants to suffer. As if it has decided that its primary function is not vacuuming but instead dramatics.

I have tried everything. I have programmed it to avoid the rug. It ignores me. I have physically blocked the rug with furniture. The vacuum still finds a way, as though drawn to its demise by forces beyond my comprehension. I have considered simply throwing the rug out the window. But then I picture Vince, looking around my apartment with that quiet, smug satisfaction, knowing his gift remains. And so, the rug stays.

And the robot fights.

And I—an intelligent, functioning adult with better things to do—spend my nights rescuing a vacuum from a decorative choice I never even wanted.

Technology is supposed to make life easier. Friendship is supposed to be rewarding. But in the grand battle between a robot that refuses to learn, a rug that refuses to leave, and a man who refuses to set boundaries, there is only one conclusion:

Vince wins.

- Rupert Chang

Kendrick Lamar Had a Message. I Had a Wooden Spoon.

I timed it perfectly—had just set the rosemary to bloom in hot oil when the halftime show began. It’s a bit of a ritual, my Sunday evening culinary experiment, but I made an exception for the Super Bowl because one must engage with the broader culture, lest one become the sort of person who uses the phrase “the broader culture” in everyday conversation. Enter Kendrick Lamar, who took the stage with a theatrical flair that suggested he had either an urgent message for humanity or was about to stage a coup against the referees. The performance was visually striking—something about the interplay of lights, dancers, and live instrumentation made it feel less like a mere show and more like an urgent transmission from the future. But as for what exactly he was saying, well, I must confess that while I caught the general vibe of righteous indignation and historical reckoning, the specifics eluded me. One moment he was delivering bars with the intensity of a man who had cracked the code to the universe, and the next, the camera cut to a backup dancer in what appeared to be a metallic trench coat, marching with the gravitas of an ancient oracle.

Still, one need not grasp every lyrical nuance to appreciate the moment. There was power in the message, even if it was slightly lost on a man tending to a pan sauce. And frankly, I admire the commitment—it’s no small thing to take the most corporate, middle-America spectacle and inject it with a sense of purpose. There’s a dignity in that, like leaving a handwritten note in a library book for some future reader to discover. I imagine many people watching had their own interpretation, and maybe that’s the point—great performances don’t hand you a neatly packaged answer but rather invite you to wrestle with the meaning. In any case, my dish (a citrus and fennel braised chicken, if you’re curious) turned out well, and the halftime show left me entertained and mildly bewildered, which feels about right.