that's gonna leave a mark.

This story begins several days ago while I was lying on my bed, talking to a friend in the dark. As I stared off into space, a quick green flash of light caught my eye.

"What was that?" I asked.

"What was what?" he responded. I sat up and looked around, and it happened again.

"Oooh, right there! It came from there!" I said excitedly. Then I realized there was a smoke alarm on the wall. "That's weird. I don't ever remember seeing that there before."

"Well, every apartment has to have one," he said.

"Yes, and mine did. Over THERE," I said, pointing to the empty ring of mounted plastic in the kitchen. "I took it down because it went off EVERY time I turned on the oven. It's in the silverware drawer."

"You know you're not supposed to--"

"I KNOW I'm not supposed to take it down. But EVERY TIME I TURNED ON THE OVEN!! What's the point of having a device if it's over-sensitive to the point that people dismantle them?"

Soon after this conversation/argument, my friend left. And as I shut and locked the door, I turned around to see right there, upon the countertop, a new, sealed-in-plastic operating manual for a combination smoke/carbon monoxide detector.

"Mother fuckers," I said to no one in particular. This meant that someone had been in my apartment without my permission NOR my knowledge, which was not only illegal but also gave access to all my bras and underwear scattered on the floor. This did NOT make me happy, and I spent the night wondering if someone was going to jump out from a closet, except there's only one closet and definitely no room to hide in it.

Now -- to the present day.

Hungry and cranky and most likely suffering PMS (yes, AGAIN), I went to the store for some groceries. Among other things like tofu, yogurt, and cheese, I bought Stouffer's French Bread Pizza, Deluxe flavor. I was so so so excited for my little french slice of heaven, covered with sausage, pepperoni, onions, mushrooms, peppers....yummmmm!!

As the instructions indicate, and as I've done a thousand times before, I microwaved the pizza for 90 seconds while the oven preheated to 450°. I popped in the pizza, checked the time, and wandered away from the kitchen.

When I checked my pizza, it was a little crispy, but I didn't mind. I pulled it out of the oven and was examining the cheesy goodness when--

BEEEEEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEEEEEP! "Fire! Fire!"

In complete and utter bewilderment, I spun in circles trying to figure out who was talking to me. I crossed the apartment in a series of quick strides, wondering how on earth I was going to fan the alarm that is mounted just inches away from my 10-foot ceiling. I looked around at my feet and, with the oven mitt still on my hand, grabbed a thick catalog while snapping the lid on my giant 18-gallon Rubbermaid container of clothing. "Fire! Fire!" some woman's voice announced.

I put my weight on the container, knowing it wouldn't hold me for long. But to my surprise it supported me as I waved the giant catalog over my head, begging the beeping woman to stop announcing my "fire" to the five boroughs. It wouldn't stop, it just wouldn't stop, and as I wondered what my neighbors were thinking....the inevitable happened.

POP! The Rubbermaid lid let go and fell into its container, dropping me a foot and a half to the ground. I bounced off the wall, taking my very, VERY treasured script of handmade Chinese calligraphy from college down off the wall as I went. Then, with a giant thunderous CRASH, the Rubbermaid tipped to the side and shot out, smashing into my water-filled humidifier and sending it careening -- in pieces -- across the floor. Vaguely aware of pain on the left side of my rib cage, I scrambled back to my feet and went to the kitchen for a chair.

The chairs are cheap and chinsey (but such a bargain!) and not made to withstand the weight of a crazy woman frantically waving a thick catalog at a chirping, speaking fire alarm. (By the way, WHEN did they start TALKING??) I lined up the chair, but first stopped to open the window as much as possible -- which was only a few more inches than its already open state. "Fire! Fire!" BEEEEEEEEEEEP!

Back on the chair, I stood and fanned and fanned and fanned. I wondered if I could reach the device, but suspected extending myself that far would make another spill not just likely, but deserved. I wished I'd looked at the manual so I knew how to shut this thing the fuck up. And I fanned and fanned and fanned, my head now inches away from the million-decibel shrieker, until finally...it stopped.

Sh.

Deep breath.

I rested my arms a second before fanning some more in the hopes the squawky bitch wouldn't start up again. I jumped off the chair to open the other window, landing in a giant puddle of water left behind my scattered humidifier, which was now actually under the bed. I fanned a few minutes more before finally relenting, stepping down so I could eat the goddamned pizza before it was slightly crispy AND cold.

As I chewed my first delicious-but-not-worth-the-trouble bite, I walked in front of the mirror and lifted my shirt. Two parallel red marks, each 6-8 inches long, wrapped around my rib cage, and another, much smaller, at the base of my neck. There's also a bruise on my hand. I don't know what I hit, but I hit something, and all because some dirty asshole let himself in to install a new, state-required smoke alarm, whose batteries, I assure you, are about to come out.