Yesterday afternoon, my toaster oven caught fire. I reason that this was not my fault, as I was only making a cheese sandwich, and it's not my fault our shitty toaster oven can't handle the slightest drip of anything before exploding into flame. I also reason that it was not my fault because the entire world around me was crashing down. For only five minutes out of my day, I had decided to leave the house and enter the backyard, taking pictures of the dog in his kennel, and that was all, goddamnit. When I returned, the album I'd left playing had advanced several songs, skipping my favorite song, which angered me. The television had of its own volition changed to the Smooth Jazz channel, which angered me. Four people on Messenger had started talking to me after a period of an hour and a half where I was ignored, which angered me. One of those people was Jason, whom I love dearly, and there is nothing in this world that makes me happier than seeing him log on and shouting OH MY GOD HI I LOVE YOU before everyone else. But since my world was exploding, he had beat me to it, and that didn't really anger me so much as it angered me that the rest of the world was angering me so I couldn't enjoy the presence of His Majesty, The Best. And while I was juggling the rest of the world, I decided it'd be a good idea to make a cheese sandwich. In our shitty, ghetto-ass toaster oven.
It was not until I smelled burning that I was alerted to the tragic situation of my poor cheese sandwich. There is a constant smell of burning that emanates from the toaster oven, from all the dripped cheese that lingers on the oven's surface, and I assumed that as I opened the toaster oven, a small wisp of smoke would greet me, my sandwich would be fine, and I could go on eating it as planned with no worries. But then I looked into the oven's clear door and saw that there was flame. In the toaster oven. Two inches away from my sandwich. I began to panic, since I am my mother's daughter, and although I suspect that she is from Hell and therefore used to flames on all sides, she gets very panicked when fire erupts anywhere. My feet hopped back and forth, my tongue forming curses in rapid succession, and I figured that I should pour water over the fire. However, I didn't want my cheese sandwich to be wet. So I pulled it out. Let me repeat that for dramatics. I pulled it out. I stuck my hand into the FIRE OVEN and removed the lava-hot cheese sandwich, successfully dropping it onto the floor as I struggled to fill a mug with water, and then throw the mug's contents at the FIRE OVEN.
And being my mother's daughter, I picked up the cheese sandwich, dusted off the top, and took it back to the computer room, where I told EVERYONE I knew that my oven had just caught on fire. There was no way I could let that story go untold, right? this is the scene of the crime:
Early last night I discovered that The Beatles are my new inspirational band. I can listen to them and write for hours, which is a very good thing. For a long while this summer I was very much afraid that I could not write anymore. That I had lost the ability. And this frightened me, since my one dying wish is to become a writer, even more than I wish to be a rockstar or a tattoo artist, both vying for second place. But no, alas, Paul McCartney saved me! I was able to write three pages of the story that will likely become Jason's yuletide present, and that is the kind of thing that deserves celebration. Here's to you, The Beatles. Jesus loves you more than you will know.
It was not until I smelled burning that I was alerted to the tragic situation of my poor cheese sandwich. There is a constant smell of burning that emanates from the toaster oven, from all the dripped cheese that lingers on the oven's surface, and I assumed that as I opened the toaster oven, a small wisp of smoke would greet me, my sandwich would be fine, and I could go on eating it as planned with no worries. But then I looked into the oven's clear door and saw that there was flame. In the toaster oven. Two inches away from my sandwich. I began to panic, since I am my mother's daughter, and although I suspect that she is from Hell and therefore used to flames on all sides, she gets very panicked when fire erupts anywhere. My feet hopped back and forth, my tongue forming curses in rapid succession, and I figured that I should pour water over the fire. However, I didn't want my cheese sandwich to be wet. So I pulled it out. Let me repeat that for dramatics. I pulled it out. I stuck my hand into the FIRE OVEN and removed the lava-hot cheese sandwich, successfully dropping it onto the floor as I struggled to fill a mug with water, and then throw the mug's contents at the FIRE OVEN.
And being my mother's daughter, I picked up the cheese sandwich, dusted off the top, and took it back to the computer room, where I told EVERYONE I knew that my oven had just caught on fire. There was no way I could let that story go untold, right? this is the scene of the crime:
Early last night I discovered that The Beatles are my new inspirational band. I can listen to them and write for hours, which is a very good thing. For a long while this summer I was very much afraid that I could not write anymore. That I had lost the ability. And this frightened me, since my one dying wish is to become a writer, even more than I wish to be a rockstar or a tattoo artist, both vying for second place. But no, alas, Paul McCartney saved me! I was able to write three pages of the story that will likely become Jason's yuletide present, and that is the kind of thing that deserves celebration. Here's to you, The Beatles. Jesus loves you more than you will know.
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