I wouldn't normally consider myself an angry person. I'm a patient person, perhaps even a nice person. But even nice, patient people have their breaking points.
This has been the Week That Everything Went Wrong. And I can't discuss any of it—in most cases, because it's private, and in one case, because I am under oath.
So today, I snapped. I was attempting to cook two pounds of bacon, and the smoke detector kept going off. And it's really really loud. So I was running back and forth between the kitchen and the smoke detector—which, I might add, I need a stool to reach. And because my attention was divided, the bacon started to burn. I'd have to run back to take it out of the pan. Then the smoke detector would start going off; I had to run back to press the button. Over and over and over.
Eventually, I had it. I started cursing. I started whaling on the smoke detector. I ripped it out of the ceiling. The noise stopped.
Now my cat is terrified of me, I could die in my sleep tonight in a fire, and I am totally dead when my boyfriend gets home and sees what I've done—but it was worth it. The dish I was attempting to make for a potluck tonight is in the oven, I'm no longer waving a towel under the smoke detector, and the apartment is blissfully and completely quiet.