So there I am. Sitting. Just minding my own business. When all of a sudden I hear a loud crash-type sound.
I looked up, heart in my throat, expecting I don’t know, maybe a ghost, maybe a rat that finally penetrated my ceiling, maybe Ryan Reynolds (a girl can hope, right?). But I see none of that. No, instead I see pieces of white plastic littering my floor.
Yup, my smoke alarm, the one that I’ve been battling for almost a year now, admitted defeat and voluntarily dove into death’s cold embrace rather then spend another day doing its smoke alarmery duties.
I WASN’T EVEN COOKING ANYTHING AT THE TIME!
I’m sure some of you are thinking that I must have burned the crap out of every single thing I cooked and that the smoke alarm opted for an early, permanent retirement due to exhaustion but I swear I haven’t burned anything yet! (I thew in “yet” because, let’s be honest, it’s extremely likely that I will burn something at some point.)