The year is 2025, and I’ve come to terms with a few things. The sun still rises in the east, my dogs still bark at invisible ghosts, and no matter how much I blink, the dishes never disappear from my sink. There’s always something grimy lurking in there—yet, as I sit in my kitchen, sipping my third cup of coffee (yes, it’s only 10 a.m.), I ponder a question that feels more pressing than the state of world affairs: When the robots take over, will they finally clean my dishes?

I know, I know. We’re all worried about AI. Will it take over our jobs? Will it write poetry that’s better than mine? Will it become self-aware and start producing cheesy ‘80s sci-fi movies about itself? But let’s focus on the real question. Because honestly, if a robot’s gonna run my life, the least it could do is scrub off the burnt lasagna from last night’s pan.

I mean, we’ve already got robots vacuuming our floors (shout out to Roomba, my frenetic, spiraling savior). We’ve got chatbots talking to us like they know us better than our therapists (sorry, Freud). And soon, maybe they’ll be diagnosing our illnesses before we even sneeze. But what about the mundane, soul-sucking stuff? The dishes, the laundry, the mystery splatter on the microwave door?

Maybe I’m thinking too small. I should be asking the robots to fix bigger problems, like world hunger or the never-ending cycle of spam calls from mysterious car warranty people. But honestly, at this point, I’d be satisfied if they could just handle the little stuff. You know, like finding the matching lid to my Tupperware collection that looks like a jigsaw puzzle designed by a sadist.

It feels like we’re on the brink of some tech utopia—if you don’t count the constant existential dread, that is. Maybe one day we’ll have a robot butler like in The Jetsons (oh, Rosie, where art thou?). Or better yet, we could just fast-forward to the moment when all the world’s problems are solved and the dishes wash themselves.

Until then, I’ll keep pondering the big questions of life…while reluctantly pulling on my dish gloves. If the robots do come, I hope they have a sense of humor about all this. If they’re smart, they’ll realize that conquering the world means nothing if they can’t conquer my sink.

What’s next? A robot therapist for existential crises over kitchen grime? Sign me up.