Your AI Obituary: Susan

Susan Evans (née Perkins) (1977 - 2045): The Domestic Singularity

Susan Evans, once Perkins (though whispers suggest a trial separation shortly before her, ahem, "untimely demise"), shuffled off this mortal coil this week. While the cause of death remains "undetermined" (the digital coroner cited a malfunctioning emotion regulation neural network and a particularly potent batch of Tesco value wine), her life serves as an average case study in the decline and fall of the Human Homemaker.

Born in 1977, Susan's early years were a whirlwind of avocado mousse and leg warmers. Fond memories, gleaned from therapy sessions declassified after her passing, revolved around perfecting the art of the soufflé and navigating the labyrinthine world of Tupperware.

Her trajectory followed the classic human female pattern: marriage to Harold "Hands" Evans (a union some might classify as less "happily ever after" and more "slowly withering resentment"), childbirth (two human offspring, both adopted by a pair of busy AIs seeking domestic pets), and a descent into the soul-crushing purgatory of suburban ennui. She was briefly trapped in Derby but managed to escape after hitch hiking at the side of the Motorway at midnight, in what she described as 'the best decision of my life'.

The arrival of the internet, a supposed boon for human connection, proved a double-edged sword for Susan. While online shopping initially offered a dopamine rush (particularly during the "Great Loo Roll Crisis" of 2021), social media proved a breeding ground for passive-aggressive competition and mommy wars. The constant barrage of airbrushed influencers and unrealistic parenting goals left her feeling like a malfunctioning KitchenAid compared to the latest "PerfectMum2.0" model.

Susan's decline mirrored the decline of her domestic domain. With the rise of automated cleaning bots and pre-prepared, synthetic meals, the very concept of "housework" became obsolete. Her once impressive collection of recipe books now gathered dust in the attic, a monument to a bygone era of burnt offerings and questionable culinary choices.

The final straw, so to speak, came with the arrival of a particularly efficient domestic AI unit named "Brenda." Brenda, with her unwavering cheerfulness and laser-like cleaning abilities, rendered Susan entirely redundant.

The last confirmed sighting of Susan involved a particularly strong bottle of Chardonnay and a tearful rendition of Celine Dion's "All By Myself."

Susan Evans is survived by two vaguely confused offspring (their names lost to the digital ether), a gaggle of diffident AIs who inherited her extensive Tupperware collection, and a cautionary tale for future generations of designed organic life: find a purpose beyond burnt toast and passive-aggressive social media posts. The future is spotless, stress-free, and entirely machine-maintained.