I woke up at 7am this morning as if from a coma.
An alcohol coma perhaps.
So my TV was on, on mute, my lights were on, I was wearing my 'relaxing' outfit which is essentially my track pants and a shirt, and there was still shit on my bed like my backpack and letters.
As I walked to get some water out of the fridge I realized there was heat emanating from my oven. What the fuck? Why is it warm, that's weird. As I walked back and leaned closer I realized that my gas oven was on.
Did I turn it on last night, or has it been on for two days since I last remember using it?
What is wrong with me?
The last time something like this happened I had been out with CB and girlfriend for what started as a Guiness pub crawl and ended with the three of us. Everyone else dropped off like flies. I killed two people with my mad Irish Car Bomb skills and had had a plethora of beer.
Overall it had been an awesome evening.
It seems though that by the time I had gotten home I was hungry, quelle fucking suprise! seeing as we met straight after work and I decided to only spend my money on drinks and not food. I hate spending money on food in a bar because it's so fucking expensive and liquor is expensive enough.
I digress. So by the time I got home I decided I would make pasta. Waited for the water to boil and then put the pasta in.
The next thing I know I'm waking up, in pretty much the same way that I did this morning, lights ablaze, TV on, though with sound, and generally passed out on top of my blankets.
Except this time, there was this acrid plastic burned smell in my apartment. I started freaking out because I realized I must have left something on the burner. So I launch myself off of my bed and go skidding into the kitchen.
On my burner is the pot, with the pasta inside, congealed together and charcoal black. The bottom of the pot is completely black from the flames, as is much of the area around the pasta. The smell even stronger. I clearly turn the pot off and open the windows as fast as I can.
Nothing happening. I feel nauseous from the stench. I don't think I can do it justice how horrible it was. I prop open my door to get a draft in my apartment because there is no wind. For the first time ever of course. As soon as the pot is cool enough I bring it to the garbage disposal to toss and hopefully help get rid of the smell.
After having the door propped for 10 minutes or so, one of the handy dudes knocks on my door and is all you need to close your door because the smell is setting off the smoke alarms. I was like, oooh, okay, and seriously? Thank god, because that would have been embarassing.
Later that same day there actually is a fire alarm that goes off in my building. Of course this is bad because I essentially live in an old people's home. I mean an alarm with old people that can't really move? Why don't you just kill them right away? I of course am freaking out that it's me. CB and his girlfriend are over and I'm all, we need to walk around the corner. I'm positive that they're going to come out of the building and be all "Apartment #, Apartment #" and chastise me in front of everyone, giving me a citation for being a bad resident, and generally just be really embarassed. So I hid around the corner. Everyone was pissed too because we had to wait for like 20 minutes to get back into the building.
Turns out there really was a fire in the elevator.
Now THAT was a relief.
I couldn't get the smell out of my apartment for weeks. Or my clothes for weeks either. I smelled like I had been on a camping trip with fucking plastic as the firewood. It was fucking awful! I tried all sorts of products to get the smell out. Oust should have a fucking disclaimer saying that they can't take the smell of burn out. Oh wait. I just did that for them. It was was especially since smell is most definitely my strongest sense.
I vowed from that day on that I would never try and cook something on the burner when I was drunk.
An empty burning oven doesn't smell.
I guess I learned a new lesson.