At 6 a.m. on the dot, the 25-to 45-year-old target-market female wakes up and stretches with delight, excited to greet the day.

For breakfast, the target-market female debates whether to eat the yogurt brand that encourages her to be herself, or the one that helps her poop. Today, like most days, the target-market female chooses regularity over self-worth.

After drinking a cup of the orange juice brand that makes her look the thinnest, the target-market female lotions up every inch of her body and gets dressed for the day. She then takes a short, breezy walk to a local café, where she patiently awaits signs of male appreciation for her noticeably soft skin.

While she waits, the target-market female daydreams about fiber, smaller pores, and easy-but-creative recipes she can make with precooked sausage. When she realizes the time, the target-market female rushes home to begin the most rewarding part of her day—doing the laundry.

At home, while waiting for the end of the spin cycle, the target-market female fantasizes that a male model has materialized in her kitchen and is making her a salad. He works slowly—first carefully washing the organic produce, then cutting the vegetables with his own chiseled facial features.

When he’s finished, he feeds the target-market female bites of the kale-based salad while sensually describing how it will help reduce her belly bloat. Afterward, he does yoga on her while they both indulge in the yogurt brand that makes the target-market female feel sexy and independent.

Hours later, the target-market female wakes up on the floor of her laundry room in a daze. She notices that the spin cycle is complete, and opens the lid of the washing machine. When she sees what the combination of premium bleach and stain-fighting detergent has accomplished, her knees weaken beneath her and her bowels release for the very first time in her life.

In her giddy, almost orgasmic state she decides to forgo her internet-enabled, whisper-quiet dryer, opting instead to “carpe diem!” and dry the brilliant whites outside on a clothesline. With the help of a talking stuffed bear (which her anxiety medication’s animated-blob mascot assures her will disappear within four to six weeks) the target-market female hangs her symbols of domestic bliss proudly in the warm, gentle breeze.

Later on, the target-market female meets up with her racially ambiguous friend for an afternoon coffee and daily discussion of their respective yeast infections. The target-market female feels comfortable discussing such personal topics because the rich aroma of her coffee has whisked her away to the calm, soothing mental state that her rage therapist has conditioned her to visit whenever she feels envious of her friend’s perfectly toned biceps or sleeveless-ready underarm skin.

After coffee, the target-market female returns home, making it back just in time to catch a falling piece of dust before it touches the floor. While re-cleaning her kitchen for the seventh time, the target-market female hallucinates that she and the mop are engaged in a quasi-sexual relationship that’s been broken up by the Swiffer. She tries playing hard to get with the mop, only to discover that it has begun a fling with the basket of pinecones she uses as holiday decor.

Unsure whether the jealousy is real or fiber induced, the target-market female builds a fire with the pinecones and every other romantically threatening knickknack, producing a very real and uncontrollable inferno. By the time the fire trucks arrive, the whole house is ablaze.

When she realizes her loss, the target-market female begins to cry like women always do.

Fortunately, in the end, the target-market female is oddly comforted by the fact that she can wipe up all the tears, spilled gasoline, and broken dreams with one illogically absorbent, quilted paper towel.