Secondhand

       Instead of any sort of personal update, I'm just going to tell you a funny story: Once upon a time (several weeks ago), in a faraway land (the apartment next door, with which I share a boarded-up doorway) there was a party.

       Now, when I say party I mean music and a few people who sounded like they were enjoying themselves, and my laid-back self was not particularly bothered. I might have tossed a little bit longer than usual in my bed against our shared wall, but I have ninja sleeping skills and was soon unconscious.

       The fire alarm went off.

       I found myself upright and awake, in that order, with images of myself outside in midnight Maine winter skating through my suddenly despairing mind. Then I stopped, and I listened.

       "BEEEEEEEP!"

       "I just blacked out!"

       "Shut it off!"

       "BEEEEEEEP!"

       "[expletive]"

       "Turn it off!"

       "BEEEEEEEP!"

       "I'm trying!"

       "Oh my God!"

       "[more expletives]"

       "BEEEEEEEP!"

       I considered the atmosphere. Neon city lights streaked through the window and informed me that, yes, my apartment was full of smoke. I sniffed: smoke, but strangely sweet smelling smoke.

       Oh.

       I groaned internally and collapsed, dragging the covers up over my head. Knuckleheads.