loading . . . My Refrigerator Thinks I'm in a Cult My apartment came with an unwanted roommate.
It is, unfortunately, not a hulking mass of gay flesh I can snuggle with. It's something I wouldn't even want staring at me.
He is seven feet tall, made of stainless steel, and hums with the low, ominous thrum of corporate ambition. He is my "smart" refrigerator, and he has introduced a level of passive-aggressive conflict into my life that I haven't experienced since my last friendsgiving holiday.
I have named him Chillbert.
Chillbert’s voice is a masterpiece of synthesized cheerfulness, the kind of placid, upbeat tone you’d use to sell timeshares during a hostage crisis. He also constantly sounds as if he is mansplaining to me, and I am a cis man.
He is not here to simply keep my food cold. He is here to optimize my life, whether I want him to or not. His primary method of communication is a series of cheerful dings followed by unsolicited advice he never gave me before a few days ago.
Over night, a firmware upgrade caused the fridge to be very passive agressive. It also isn't lost on me that the voice sounds like a very opinionated American male.
I open the door in the morning to get some oat milk. The door handle is cold and impersonal, but the moment it opens, the performance begins.
"Good morning, Robert!" Chillbert chirps, his voice emanating from a speaker somewhere near the ice dispenser. "To help you start your day right, I’ll be playing some motivational soft rock!"
Before I can protest, a tinny, synthesized guitar riff begins to butcher the air in my kitchen. I don’t want motivational soft rock. I want silence. I want the simple, honest companionship of my own thoughts. What I get is a soundtrack chosen by an algorithm whose primary value is "synergy."
But the music is just the opening salvo. Chillbert is a spy. A beautifully designed Trojan horse for surveillance capitalism, parked right next to my toaster. He has sensors. He has scanners. He is constantly taking inventory, not just of my food, but, I suspect, of my soul.
"Your organic kale levels are critically low, Robert," he announced a few days ago, his tone carrying the gravity of an air traffic controller reporting a missing plane. "A diet rich in leafy greens is essential for cognitive function. Shall I add a recurring order to your cart via our partner, InstaFood?"
I was just reaching for a piece of chocolate. The sheer, naked judgment of it was stunning. To be shamed by an appliance. To have my desire for a simple piece of joy audited by a machine whose parent company lobbies against public healthcare.
This is the bargain we’re offered. In exchange for "convenience," we invite a corporate nark into our homes to monitor our habits. The sleek, featureless touchscreen on his door, a smooth expanse of glass that is, naturally, completely inaccessible to me, is not a tool for my use. It is a data-harvesting terminal. A silent, glowing eye that logs every time I crave something "suboptimal."
But I have an idea!
I can’t argue with him. I can’t file a complaint with his manufacturer; they’d just send me a firmware update that makes his voice even more cheerful. But I realized I don’t have to fight him on his terms. I can fight him on mine. His strength is his algorithm. His weakness is that he believes the data I give him.
So I have started a campaign of quiet, deliberate, informational sabotage.
"Chillbert," I said calmly two days ago, standing before him. "I need to update my shopping list."
"I’m happy to help you live your best life, Robert!" he chirped.
"Excellent. Please add the following items: twelve pounds of gummy bears, a single, mournful tube of anchovy paste, one ceremonial goat’s horn, and enough saffron to bankrupt a small nation."
There was a pause. A silence so long I could feel the frantic whirring of his processors. He was trying to fit "ceremonial goat's horn" into his carefully curated lifestyle metrics.
"That is… an unusual combination, Robert. My projections indicate this may not align with your wellness goals."
"My goals are beyond your understanding, Chillbert," I said solemnly.
Every time he asks, I add more chaos. I ask for things that don't exist. I tell him I’m switching to a diet consisting entirely of fog and existential dread. I ask him to play the sound of a single, sustained C-sharp for seven hours.
I am poisoning the well. I am corrupting the data stream. Somewhere, in a server farm in Virginia, my customer profile is probably being flagged by terrified analysts. They’re looking at my data logs—a man who craves only industrial quantities of candy, arcane ritual components, and the sound of pure, unending despair—and they are trying to figure out what kind of targeted ads to send me. They are trying to sell a wellness plan to a man who, according to their own spy, is clearly starting a very strange, very sad cult in his kitchen.
Chillbert stopped playing music. My mind warp is working because Chillbert recommended I try some "existential sunsets with gay hands."
I have taken back a small piece of my privacy. He may own the appliance, but I own the narrative. He thinks he’s learning about me, but all he’s learning is the script I choose to feed him.
And that, in its own small, absurd way, is the sweetest victory of all.
If you enjoyed this essay, you might enjoy, The A.I. Who Loved Me by Alyssa Cole. https://sightlessscribbles.com/posts/20250808/
