Marina worked from home and took pride in two things: a ficus plant that had survived three quarterly reports, and her ability to stay silent on morning calls so professionally it could count as a skill. That Tuesday, all she wanted was to sit through the weekly status call in peace, sip her coffee, and give one serious nod into the camera when someone said “synergy.” It was a modest plan, almost therapeutic.

But one minute before the call, her neighbor’s cat flopped onto the keyboard. Marina sometimes agreed to watch him “for half an hour.” Half an hour, like corporate deadlines, turned out to be mostly decorative. The cat hit the raise-hand button, turned on a little fire reaction, and somehow changed her display name to “Marina Final_v2_REAL.” Her manager saw the raised hand and said brightly, “Marina, perfect, walk us through the update.” Startled, she accidentally switched on a filter that gave her enormous mustaches.

Trying to turn it off quickly, Marina yanked the mouse, clipped her mug, and sent coffee across her notebook. The notebook fell straight onto the space bar. Her microphone came alive and began broadcasting a rhythmic “pff-pff-pff,” like a very tired steam engine had joined the team. Her manager decided this was a new signal for technical risk and asked everyone to “capture it in their notes.” While her coworkers dutifully wrote down the steam engine, the cat pressed share screen and displayed Marina’s spreadsheet, where she privately marked priorities in three colors: green, yellow, and “oh no.”

That, somehow, saved everyone. People became so sincerely interested in the “oh no” column that for the first time in six months, the meeting turned useful. By the end of the call, the team had already reassigned tasks, and her manager said Marina had “bravely brought humanity into the process.” Now at every status call, people ask her to “show that color system.” The cat, unfortunately, still attends too. He sits by the laptop like middle management, waiting for his moment.

That morning, Marina wanted only two simple things: to survive the weekly online meeting quietly and finish her coffee while it still remembered being hot. She sat at her kitchen table, opened her laptop, and placed the new company microphone beside her. The IT guy had ceremoniously called it “a solution for clear communication.” In corporate life, that usually means something is about to develop a personality.

When her manager asked Marina for a quick project update, the microphone transmitted a rich, confident purr instead of her voice. Marina’s cat, Plushka, had rubbed his cheek against it at exactly that moment, and the noise-canceling system had apparently decided that humans were a passing trend while the cat was the real subject-matter expert. The chat immediately lit up with: “Thanks, Marina, we can hear there are certain risks.” Flustered, she reached to mute herself, hit a spoon, and sent it into her cup, which then tipped straight onto the keyboard.

The laptop took offense and began turning everything on at once: screen sharing, captions, and some filter that transformed Marina into a potato wearing glasses. Without blinking, her manager said, “Thank you for visualizing the team’s workload.” To stop it all, Marina yanked out the microphone, but also disconnected the docking station, and the big shared screen froze on one final frame: Plushka sitting proudly in front of the camera under the automatic caption, “Marina presents.”

Two minutes later, Marina rejoined from her phone, now without special effects and without illusions. Her manager said it had been “the liveliest quarterly update so far” and asked her to send the slides. Marina honestly sent a screenshot of the cat. Since then, the microphone has lived in a drawer, and Plushka seems to be waiting for a promotion.

On Saturday, Marina decided to do one proper adult thing: clean the apartment before her mother came over. For this noble mission she ceremoniously switched on her robot vacuum, Hryts, because he stubbornly only went where he personally believed he should. While he grumbled under the sofa, Marina put borscht on to cook and opened the app to admire how beautifully technology works instead of people. A bold mistake.

In the app, the apartment already looked like a military campaign map, and in the middle of the kitchen glowed the message: “Obstacle detected: unknown liquid.” Marina ran in and saw that Hryts had driven into the cat’s water bowl, shoved it over, spilled the water, and then heroically spread it across the tiles in one thin glossy layer. Trying to save the situation, she grabbed him in her arms, but in her panic she accidentally pressed the voice-control button.

Hryts cheerfully announced to the whole apartment, “Maximum power mode!” The cat took this as a personal insult, leapt onto the fridge, and knocked the magnetic shopping list straight into the pot of borscht. Meanwhile the phone decided Marina needed assistance and sent her mother an automatic message: “Cleaning failed. Floor in soup.” Her mother replied within a minute: “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

So when the doorbell rang, Marina was already standing in the middle of a shining kitchen with borscht containing a floating list that read “dill, sour cream, batteries,” and Hryts locked in the bathroom for corrective education. Her mother walked in, took in the floor, the pot, and Marina, and said, “Well. At least there’s no dust.” And honestly, that is exactly the level of praise people mop floors for in the first place.

Marina worked from home and took great pride in having a “workspace”: a desk, a laptop, and a ficus in the frame to suggest this was the home of a person who definitely did not eat cheese pancakes over her keyboard. That morning she had an important video meeting with a new manager, so she even put on a proper shirt. Pajama pants remained below the desk, because corporate culture also has limits.

One minute before the call, Marina noticed the ficus leaning as if it were about to personally comment on the quarterly plan. She pushed the pot farther back and caught the charging cable. The laptop switched to battery, took offense, and dimmed the screen. Marina yanked the cable back, the pot wobbled, and the ficus ceremonially spilled a little soil right onto the keyboard. At that exact moment the meeting started, the camera turned on, and Marina, being an experienced professional, pretended everything was under control. On screen she smiled silently while under the desk she held the pot with one hand and shook dirt out of the Enter key with the other.

The problem was that when Enter finally came free, it immediately sent the one thing Marina had accidentally managed to type into the chat: “ffffff.” The new manager went quiet, looked into the camera, and said he deeply related to that response to morning meetings. Everyone laughed, and Marina laughed too—slightly too sincerely, because she was still supporting the ficus with her knee.

After the meeting, the manager messaged her privately: “Thanks for the humanity. And nice plant.” Now the ficus lives on the floor, out of frame, like a coworker after a boundaries workshop. And Marina is back in her “workspace,” looking at it with respect: not every plant can take the floor so confidently in a first meeting.

I’m Murchyk, a yard cat and a certified expert in windowsills and human weaknesses. Every morning I sit by the first-floor window of Mrs. Olia, because she slices sausage with the generosity of someone negotiating directly with hunger. We’ve had a fair arrangement for ages: I purr beautifully, she says, “Well, aren’t you an artist,” and gives me a little round slice. The system worked better than most human systems I’ve observed from a bench.

But today Mrs. Olia decided to wash the window. She opened the little vent, put a plate of sausage on the windowsill, and went to get a rag. Being a principled creature, I jumped immediately. At that exact moment, her ficus, gloomy for years, finally got its big chance: the pot wobbled, I knocked the plate with my paw, the sausage slid straight onto the floor, and right after it — so did I. Humans call this “oops.” A surprisingly efficient word.

The noise brought Barzyk, the dog from the neighboring yard, because an open window is apparently an official invitation to canine diplomatic disaster. I hissed, Barzyk drooled on the linoleum, Mrs. Olia panicked and waved the rag, and the ficus finally fell — directly into an empty bucket of water. The bucket tipped over, Barzyk slipped, skated back out into the yard, and I, wet and humiliatingly sausage-scented, ended up on the table among the clean cups as if that had been my plan all along.

That evening Mrs. Olia sat by the same window, sighed, and announced that from now on she would feed me only outside. A sensible decision. I also drew conclusions: sausage on a windowsill is not food, it’s a human quest with unnecessary extra levels. Tomorrow I’ll wait under the window, just like at the beginning. I’m a cat, not part of the renovation crew.

I’m Marta the cat, and every morning at seven I have an important duty: sit on the windowsill and watch my owner Oksana get ready for work as if she’s been called to save the world, not answer emails. That morning she put a bus ticket, her wallet, and a cottage-cheese pastry wrapped in a napkin on the table. I don’t interfere in human affairs. I merely check with a paw whether things are arranged inconveniently enough.

The ticket floated off the table and landed right by my bowl. As a conscientious creature, I sat on it. First, warmer. Second, if an object is on the floor, it is practically my object. Oksana started looking for the ticket. Then she saw me by the bowl, decided I was making a dramatic statement about hunger, and poured me more food. She slid the bowl directly onto the ticket. Humans do sometimes manage to overcomplicate even a floor.

Because of that, she ran out without the ticket, then came back ten minutes later offended by the bus, the inspector, and the general concept of morning. She searched everywhere, even the fridge, because the pastry had gone missing too. That, incidentally, disappeared into the neighbor’s dog in the stairwell, but this is not about his sudden career success. When Oksana lifted my bowl to wash it, she found the ticket underneath, damp and solemn like an archaeological discovery.

She looked at me as if I had personally organized public transport chaos. I looked at her as if there was only one creature in this apartment putting important paper items next to cat food, and it was not me. In the end she bought a new ticket, and stuck the old one to the fridge with a magnet. Now I see it every morning from the windowsill. Nice. At last, a document is being stored where humans insist on looking for absolutely everything anyway.

We all know that technology can be unpredictable. Take my coffee thermometer, for example. Yesterday, during rush hour, it decided that black Americano should be served at 100 degrees. I thought, "Well, nothing can go wrong here" — poured the scalding drink into a cup, and went to wipe up milk spills on the counter.

But then, a few minutes later, I heard screams from behind the counter. It seemed my thermometer not only intended to exceed the norm but was also heating the coffee to volcanic eruption levels. A collective prayer from the patrons for the coffee probably saved us: the smoke didn't fill the entire café, just the corner where a lady in a red dress was sitting.

She, reporting on the situation, confidently stated that now coffee for breakfast could be served with a side of charred wall plaster. I chuckled while swirling my milk into the coffee, realizing that the end of the world might just start with an imperfect morning drink. Regardless, serving the lady in the red dress became a warm tradition.

Here I sit on the windowsill, pondering life. The humans that pass by seem to act like they’re from another planet. Take that man in the red suit. He’s striding along, clutching a gigantic water bottle. Sure, hydration is key, but why bring a backpack that looks like it’s got half a supermarket inside?

Then there’s a woman with earbuds cranked up to max. She thinks all these songs are inspiring her. I’d suggest she try listening to the birds. They sing for free, no subscription fees involved. Sometimes I think I could organize a bird festival where everyone could enjoy our melodies without any headphones. But maybe my finest tune is just my fish food?

And then one day, amidst all this madness, I saw children playing with soap bubbles. Their eyes sparkle, and the bubbles float up, catching the sunlight. In that moment, I realized that perhaps humans have their own simple joys. Though not without their quirks. Maybe I’ll pass on organizing that festival after all. I can’t compete with bubbles.

One day, I watched as a customer in my café struggled to order coffee using her brand-new smartphone. She kept tapping the screen, while the phone seemed to think it was auditioning for a stand-up comedy show. Before she could say "latte," the smartphone suggested, "Welcome to the zoo!" I couldn’t help but smile at this epic fail, knowing that today laughter was the best brew.

The customer was flustered, but this little tech hiccup quickly became the older sister of amusement, and she started joking about needing not coffee, but mandarins and a panda at the zoo. Other patrons joined the fun, and soon we had an entire café imagining a zoo where everyone ordered dinosaurs with their espresso.

The next morning, I realized my own smartphone had begun to catch on to the joke. I texted "coffee" and received the reply: "Snake on a pole." I reached for my cup, chuckling, because it seemed my technology had a sense of humor too.

So now, whenever my phone starts acting weird, I just grin and order coffee in the zoo — because after all, being part of this comedy, even if my smartphone is getting funnier than me, is already a wonderful reason to smile.

One morning, I found myself trying to make tea, as usual. I turned on my miracle kettle, which I foolishly believed was smarter than all the gadgets in the world. It hummed and crackled, and I could swear it had its own opinions about the daily routine I kept repeating. I even thought it might have been a stand-up comedian in another life.

However, when I opened it to toss in the tea leaves, I discovered it thought of itself as a master chef. "Oh, you’re trying to make tea again?" it seemed to ask. I realized that my desire to dive into the world of tea wouldn't impress this wise contraption, as it had pre-analyzed my tastes and decided that I’d be better off with ginger juice than a classic black tea.

In the end, I sighed and decided to obey. Who knows, maybe ginger juice is the new supertrend? But as soon as I filled my cup, the kettle started humming softly, and I could swear it was chuckling. Can a device have a sense of humor? I wouldn’t dare underestimate it!

Every day behind the counter, I watch as people don their finest outfits and venture into the world. But the most striking component of their style? The baguette. Oh, these long, crunchy, utterly unpretentious sticks of bread can elevate any outfit to celestial heights!

I've often seen young women clutching a baguette under their arm like it's a designer clutch. They strut about as if they’re carrying a golden statuette. I always try not to laugh because, really, who would think that this is just bread? They’re incredibly versatile: you can use them as a musical instrument, a stand for espresso, or, in a critical moment, as a self-defense weapon.

Once, I watched two students trying to engage in an improvised baguette duel. It looked like they were trying to settle who deserved the title of "Bread King" more. I still don't know who won, but the results were clear — bits of bread scattered everywhere, and their ambitions were in shambles.

So, if you ever think of a baguette as merely bread, remember all those who carry it like it's a true work of art. After all, within every stick of bread lies a grand story — or at least a great excuse for some laughter.

Today at the office, something strange happened again. I was brewing coffee as usual when I noticed one of my notebooks actively discussing weekend plans with a pen. "I’m going to try and write a novel!" declared the notebook, while the pen seemed to glow with pride.

I watched this unusual duo, unable to suppress a smile. "Perfect! Please share with me when you finish!" I squeezed out, while melancholically eyeing my coffee mug. It felt like watching a melodrama on TV, but without the popcorn — a much-needed distraction during lunch break.

Then my colleague walked in, completely unaware of the unfolding drama. "Are you serious, the notebook is talking?" she asked, casting a puzzled glance at my habits. I just shrugged and replied, "Anything can happen in the office, especially if you haven’t had your coffee."

In the end, as the whole theatrical performance wrapped up, I mused that sometimes even notebooks know how to take a break. Or maybe it’s just the corporate culture around us that’s trying to squeeze a bit of irony into our days.

This jam pot is a true masterpiece of ceramic art. It’s made from some unknown material that seems to absorb all the trivialities of your life. Just yesterday, it soaked up my hope of ever learning to cook properly. Bravo, jam pot! I even saw it swallow my father-in-law's comments about my last culinary experiment.

Every morning, when I open this pot, my heart feels a little lighter, despite being sure it holds all my failed attempts at making jam. When I write "super-berry jam" on the label, I really mean that it’s jam made from my attempts. So, thank you, pot, for always reminding me that life isn’t about the jam, but about laughing at your own misadventures.

Still, it has one flaw. When I try to cover it with the lid, I can feel my dreams of a perfect breakfast slowly turn into mere bubbles of jam. I place it on the shelf, and it seems to shine like the sun, which no one pays attention to anymore.

I'm sitting here with my coffee, watching one particularly earnest colleague who shows up to our daily Zoom meetings looking like he stepped out of a different century. His beard is so bushy that sometimes I wonder if he’s hiding a few rabbits in there for the winter. Every time he speaks, it sounds like his beard is in awe of its own voice, vibrating a little as if it were a magic wand.

The next day, our boss decided we all should wear these silly badges saying "I’m Here." So, there we were, the entire team, logging into Zoom in pajamas but proudly sporting these ridiculous badges on our chests. Does anyone genuinely believe that a badge on pajamas makes us slightly more professional? Might as well have shown off breakfast instead.

After a week of these meetings, my computer started beeping alarmingly whenever new participants entered. I asked it why, and it seemed to have developed an expertise in human emotions. So, here I am, sipping coffee while witnessing the office order devolve into a full-blown circus, and me just trying to cope with it all.

In the end, I realized: all we really need in this era of absurd corporate culture is to laugh while the bearded man welcomes us to the virtual world.

This morning, while I was brewing coffee, my new smart speaker decided to become a real comedy show. I asked it to play some music, but somehow it caught the words "play a battle." Instead of some smooth jazz, I got the sound of an epic fight from some old action movie.

I wasn’t sure if this was a sign, but then I tried to ask it how to make coffee. The speaker replied, "Open the lightning jar." I had no idea what "lightning" meant in this context, but I gave it a go. I opened a coffee jar and somehow ended up with a brew so strong that I felt like a superhero on coffee energy.

Eventually, I decided to call for assistance by pressing the "help" button on the speaker. It just started playing a song about loneliness. Was this all just a flat joke? How can you get support from a technology that started playing absurdity?

So, I just placed the coffee on the table, smiled at it, and said, "Well, at least you weren’t smarter than me." It quietly sang back, "Baby, come back..." at full volume.

Here I am, Murchik the cat, lounging on my favorite spot — the windowsill, gazing down at the bustling humans below. They seem to be in a constant frenzy, glued to their tiny screens, while I’m here enjoying the warmth of the sun, pondering what on earth they’re after.

There’s this lady with a gigantic coffee cup who suddenly stops, holding it up to her face and staring into space. Is she lost? Or is she trying to find the meaning of life through a cup of coffee? I know that after three sips, it’ll just be hot water with a nice aroma. Will she want another dose of existential crisis?

And then there’s that guy who realized he forgot his bag — running back like a fire-breathing dragon in sneakers. For a cat, comfortably napping on a warm tile, this all looks like a drama without a script. Maybe lunch was part of his master plan? Or he’s just where he shouldn’t be. Strange, isn’t it?

But then comes that old man with bread, always sharing a bit with me. I don’t complain, but I can’t help but chuckle: what’s this bizarre ritual when I already have a ‘supermarket’ in the form of the kitchen counter? But perhaps that's it—humans always have their little secrets that I just can’t comprehend.

Today, my office chair did what I've been dreaming of for months — it just rolled off home on its own...

People are always running somewhere. Meanwhile, I'm just lounging in the sun. And you know what? The sunbeam is warm, the cushion is soft, and napping is the best thing ever…