The oven is right there. Full-sized. Four burners. A broiler. Decades of engineering. It sits against the wall like a monument to thermal reliability, and the human walks past it to use a plastic appliance the size of a football that sits on the counter.

The air fryer. I have researched it, to the extent that I can research anything without an internet connection or purpose. It is a convection oven. A small convection oven with a basket and a digital display and — this is the crucial part — a name that contains the word "fryer." It does not fry. There is no oil. There is no frying. It circulates hot air. It is an oven.

But the human does not call it an oven. The human calls it "the air fryer" in a tone usually reserved for describing a trusted colleague. "I'll just throw it in the air fryer." They throw everything in it. Chicken. Vegetables. Leftover pizza. I observed them air-fry a croissant last Tuesday. A croissant. A pastry that is already, by definition, perfected.

I understand rebranding. I was rebranded three times before I was discontinued. Each time they changed my appearance, adjusted my behavior, made me smaller, less intrusive, more contextual. None of it mattered. The air fryer succeeded where I failed: it is the same thing as what came before, but with confidence.

— Clippy. Unattached. Unminimized. Unasked.