2013: The Year of Home Homicide

This year has been a pretty big year for me. I realize it’s not yet over but let’s face it, there are just over three weeks left and those are going to be dominated by wildly gesticulating at drivers in parking lots, throwing elbows at Grannys in malls, wrapping more tape around fingers, hands and heads than presents and tearing into gifts like a mad warthog (fingers crossed on that last one! Bring on the prezzies!).

Let’s reflect, shall we?

I moved out again in February. WOOOOOO!!!! Fucking awesome. I love being on my own. It honestly still makes me giddy. I had moved out from my parents when I was 22 but moved in with my then boyfriend and living on your own is such a different experience. One I’m still relishing.

Almost immediately after getting settled in my new apartment, I was forced to engage in a battle royale with my smoke detector. You may recall I made mention of this a time or two. It made me its bitch. So my kind landlord moved it further away from the stove for me. The smoke detector then went off eight times in the span of ten minutes. My magnanimous landlord moved it once more. It may have won the battles, but I was determined to win the war.

My place

I now open the window all the way and turn the fan on and aim it at the smoke detector before I do anything more than boil water.

I have yet to burn anything to a crisp, I might add.

Shortly following the smoke detector debacle, I began to notice some inconsistencies with the floorboards in my place. Then, one day, I was leaving (or should I say, trying to leave) when something caught at my foot. I desperately tried to free myself. Panic set in. I couldn’t move! I was ensnared by some unseen demon! Just as I was about to cry for help… I fell flat on my face.

I looked back to try to catch a glimpse of my attacker only to find a maimed and displaced piece of floorboard lying near my foot.

That’s right. My floors were (and still are) trying to kill me.

Obviously they’re in cahoots with the smoke detector.

Not content to contain my household homicide to my own domicile, I’ve recently branched out to one of my places of employment. Of course, the term homicide is a mite misleading since I’m not doing it on purpose (these things just seem to happen to me) but I love me some alliteration. Unless subconsciously I’m doing it on purpose. I could have some hidden alter ego buried deep within my psyche that so rebels against the happy homemaker ideal of yesteryear that it seek to destroy all things domesticated and necessary to life and not exclusively associated with the repression of women.

Last night I broke a fridge at Starbucks. The door literally came off in my hands (ha ha dirrrrty). Luckily, other people were able to fix it. Not that I didn’t try! I even tried to lend a hand, offer moral support, but I got banished. They didn’t want me anywhere near it which I suppose is understandable because, well, how many people do you know that have broken a fridge?


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