My Dishwasher Is Broken and So Is Society

While the planet burns, I texted a beautiful ex-fling, broke a nail opening a sponge box, and now handwash dishes in a state of personal crisis. Mercury Retrograde? Maybe.

There are atrocities happening as we speak. Floods. Bombings. A girl somewhere is Googling “how to apply for asylum” while I’m Googling “how to fix a dishwasher that smells like soup.”

It’s not that I don’t see it. I do. I scroll past it between ads for exfoliants and sponsored influencers selling inner peace. I take it in. I feel it. And then I go back to my own tiny heartbreaks.

I texted a man I used to flirt with. A Hinge match so beautiful it felt like the app had glitched and gifted me a brief moment of symmetrical joy. It didn’t go anywhere. I fumbled the vibe. I talked too much. I sent him a “just thinking of you” message during Mercury Retrograde like someone who owns zero self-respect and one fully broken brain.

He liked the message. Not replied. Liked. That soft little digital pat on the head that says I acknowledge your existence but not enough to engage with it.

Meanwhile, Gaza is being shelled. My inbox is full of donation requests. And I’m lying in bed, staring at the heart emoji like it’s a verdict.

I broke my nail trying to open a box of sponges while the ice caps are melting

It wasn’t even a box worth opening. It was Amazon. A panic order. Dish soap and eco-friendly sponges because my dishwasher betrayed me last Friday.

It wasn’t loud. No sparks or chaos. Just... silence. A half-cycle and then nothing. The smell of wet rice and failure.

I wrestled the packaging like it owed me something. Pried it open with my fingers, my teeth, my hope. And then my nail snapped. The middle one, obviously. The one that already looked like it had opinions.

So now I’m bleeding slightly. The world is boiling. And I’m angry at cardboard.

I’m not unaware. I’m just unraveling in parallel.

I have compassion fatigue and compassion surplus at the same time. I can’t stop thinking about people suffering and I also can’t stop thinking about the exact moment I started spiraling this week.

It was Monday. I looked at the pile of dishes. I looked at the unread messages. I looked at my reflection and thought: this is a woman on the brink.

Not because I have it the worst. Not even close. But because I am still a person with a breaking point. And sometimes it arrives disguised as a sponge order.

My dishwasher is broken and so is my hope for intimacy

Let me be clear: I don’t think he was the one. The Hinge guy. The living thirst trap with cheekbones you could legally trademark.

But when we matched, I felt seen. Not emotionally, God no. Just... visually validated in a way that made me feel like maybe I wasn’t a gremlin.

And this week, with the dishwasher broken, the dishes stacked like a Greek tragedy, and the world on literal fire, I wanted one simple interaction to go right.

It didn’t.

Somewhere a government is collapsing. Somewhere I’m scraping dried hummus off a spoon.

I hold both. I scroll through destruction and then I scroll through my own.

There’s a grief that comes from knowing you’re lucky and still a mess. That your hands are raw from washing dishes while someone else’s are raw from digging through rubble. That your ache is ridiculous and yet somehow valid.

I don’t want to center myself in global pain. But I also don’t want to pretend that my own little breakdown isn’t happening in real time.

I can care about Gaza and still cry over a text.

That’s the thing no one tells you about being conscious. You do feel it all. The world’s tragedies. The weight of privilege. The guilt of knowing better.

But also, you’re still a person. With a body. A brain. A need to be held. A broken nail that stings more than it should.

I’ve cried for the children in war zones and I’ve cried because I feel unlovable.

It’s not Mercury Retrograde. It’s me trying to stay soft in a world that keeps breaking things.

My dishwasher. My sense of romantic possibility. My patience.

Maybe the dishwasher will get fixed. Maybe I’ll stop texting men who make me feel like a glitch. Maybe I’ll go to a protest this weekend and cry next to strangers who also feel everything too much and not enough.

But for now, I am here. In my kitchen. In my grief. In my own luxurious ruin.

I’m not blind. I’m just trying to scrub a fork and my conscience at the same time.