I Am Destroyer

Prelude:

I just wanted a cup of tea.  How could I have known that this simple desire would lead to such utter chaos and destruction?

I was staying with a friend's parents while traveling in Oregon.  They were kind enough to feed me dinner AND dessert.  They cheerfully complied with all of my food-allergy demands.  They let me sleep on their vintage leather sofa without a protective bed-sheet underneath my filthy, drooling head.  And I destroyed their home.

I knew that I had to leave very early the next morning.  I would need caffeine.  I should have just gone to a gas station, but I didn't.   That night, I asked my hosts if I could brew some tea before I left in the morning.  My friend's mother showed me how to work the immaculately crafted and expensive-looking marble stove.  There was a teapot sitting inconspicuously on the counter.  I assumed that it was the vessel in which I was to heat my water.   Seeing no further need for clarification, I bid my warm and friendly hosts goodnight.

Chaos:

4:00 AM:  My cell phone heralded that fateful day with a salsa-inspired ringtone.  I groggily shuffled into the kitchen, turned on the stove and placed the teapot upon the right rear burner.   I didn't turn on a light because I wanted to be as unobtrusive as possible.  I sat down at the kitchen table, waiting for the telltale whistle of my boiling water.

It was about 4:07 when I first noticed the smell.

My sleepy brain slowly began to realize that there was something wrong.  "Burning plastic is not a normal household smell..." it thought to itself.

I got up to investigate the source of this noxious odor, thinking that maybe the oven had just been cleaned and I accidentally turned it on instead of the stove.  Oven cleaner can sometimes smell like burning plastic.

When I got closer to the stove, my theory about the oven cleaner was thoroughly debunked based purely upon the raw strength of the smell.  This was no ordinary scent.  Something epic had occurred to produce this vile trespass upon my nasal passages.

I probably should have turned on a light, but I didn't want to alert my hosts to the presently unidentified disaster in their kitchen.  I figured that I would identify the disaster, act quickly to control the problem and clean up any evidence before I went merrily on my way with no one the wiser.

Except that's not how it happened.  Because I didn't turn on the light, I had to rely on my sense of smell to locate the source of the problem.  Unsurprisingly, it turned out to be the teapot.

"Oh," I thought, "it must be a new teapot.   Maybe they didn't take off the price sticker and now it is burning."

If only that were the case.

I went to grab the teapot off the stove.   When I lifted it up, a plume of chemical vapors erupted into the air.  At this point, I was thoroughly confused.   What the hell?  Why was this happening?  I was starting to panic.

I turned off the stove and poured water on the chemical-spewing teapot because I figured that the problem was most likely burning-related and water fixes burning.  I thought I had the problem solved.

When the cloud of toxic fumes responded by growing in magnitude, I began to grasp the severity of the situation.

The adrenaline coursing through my veins finally succeeded in waking up my brain.  I opened the microwave to cast some unobtrusive light upon my predicament.

Destruction:

Holy sh*t.  Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.

The teapot had been reduced to a smoldering lump which was presently oozing outward in all directions, destroying everything in its path.

I picked up what used to be the teapot by its cord and threw it in the sink.  If you were paying attention, you may have noticed that I said "cord."  The teapot was not meant for stovetop use.  It was a plastic plug-in teapot.  "Was" being the operant word.

I don't know what this f**king demon of a teapot was made out of, but whatever it was, it had a remarkable capacity to keep burning despite my best efforts to put it out.  Also, adding water seemed to simply exacerbate the gaseous cloud that was beginning to form in the kitchen.

I took the object formerly recognized as a teapot outside.

By the day's first light, I could finally see the consequences of my actions clearly.   The charred relic of a teapot dangled limply by its mangled cord, winding in and winding out on itself as if it was shaking its head disapprovingly, saying "look what you did!"

I set it in the grass and hurried back inside.   I opened all the doors and windows.  I turned on the fan.   I quietly closed the door to my hosts' bedroom.

I could then turn on the light (why hadn't I done this earlier??)

I died a little inside when I saw that the previously immaculate stove was covered in a tarry, bubbling layer of super-plastic.  I stood, eyes transfixed on the spectacle before me, contemplating my escape options.

Action:

I could leave right then and let them try to figure out what happened.

I could tie myself to a chair and pretend that marauding anti-teapot extremists had ravaged the now-defunct piece of kitchenware as I watched helplessly.

I began frantically searching the kitchen for an answer.  I found a spatula.  I used the spatula to scrape off the worst of the mess.  It didn't really work.   I just destroyed the spatula too.

Applying my knowledge of chemistry, I began rifling through the bathroom drawers, looking for something that would dissolve plastic.  nail-polish remover!  Acetone will dissolve plastic, or at least loosen its grip on other substances.

I took the nail-polish remover into the kitchen and applied abundant amounts of it to the charred remains of the teapot.  (I don't even want to know what kind of damage my lungs were suffering form all these noxious vapors.)

It actually worked fairly well.  The stovetop was devoid of any stuck-on plastic.  If I tilted my head just right, I couldn't even tell that it was irreparably damaged.

I cleaned up the rest of my mess, and packed my things.

Atonement:

It was a Saturday, so I felt even less keen about waking up the proprietors of the household I had so nearly destroyed.

I opted to leave a note:

"Dear J_____ and J_______:


First of all, thank you for opening your home to me.  I truly appreciate your hospitality.  I am sure you are wondering what that smell is.  I regret to inform you that your teapot has perished at my hand.   I didn't realize it was an electric teapot and I put it on the stove.  I googled "burning plastic fumes" and, luckily, you guys should be okay as long as you don't get a really bad headache or start throwing up.   If you do, go to the doctor immediately.  I tried to clean up the stove.  I had to use nail-polish remover to get the plastic off, so that is why your entire house smells like acetone.  Don't worry, it'll burn right off when you turn on the stove again.  The remains of the teapot are out back, airing out.  I checked to make sure it hadn't set  your yard on fire before I left.  Enclosed, please find $20.  I know that the damage I have caused to your stove is far more costly than this meager amount could ever hope to atone for, but it is all I have.  It should at least be enough to buy another teapot.  I have some stuff that I could sell, so I should be able to pay you back in full at some point.  Once again, thank you for your hospitality and I am sorry that I destroyed your teapot and stove.  Please forgive me.  


Sincerely,


Allie"

Epilogue:

My friend's parents are wonderful people with a good sense of humor.  They said that they understood, and his mother actually blamed herself for not telling me where the real teapot was.  She said she was impressed with my ingenuity in regard to cleaning up after myself.  Sadly, all the ingenuity in the world cannot make up for a total lack of foresight.

Am I Going To Die??

I woke up yesterday morning and became vaguely aware that my right toe felt like - well, the best way to describe it would be "dying-death-kill-maim-destroy-ness."  

This was only slightly more annoying than the fact that it was 6:00 AM on the only day I could sleep in and I could not get back to sleep. I tossed and turned until 6:37 and then decided that going to the ER would be a good idea because I was 96% sure that there was a firemonster in my toe.  

So it was that I found myself competing for medical attention with a burn victim, a dying six-year-old and a man with what appeared to be a dragon-conquering wound.  They were all looking at me like I did not deserve to be there.   

When it was finally my turn to be seen by the doctor, he asked me what was wrong and I had to look him in the face and say "my toe hurts."  

He asked me if I had a blister.   I was a little offended that he had so grossly underestimated my ability to accurately assess pain.  

"It's not a blister," I told him with what I hoped was an icy glare.  

He proceeded to ask me if I had a splinter.     

"It's not a splinter,"  I said in a low, menacing tone.  I wanted to tell him that it was probably a firemonster, but doctors don't like it when you beat them to a diagnosis.  I decided to play it cool.  

The doctor asked me to remove my socks.  Upon seeing my bulbous, throbbing toe, he appeared to take me a little more seriously.  

After asking me about several pleasantly legitimate possible sources of pain, like hammer wounds, rabid spiders and gout, he said "I'm going to order you some antibiotics just in case..."  

As it turns out, I may have an infection in my bone.  This means that I have to take a ludicrous amount of antibiotics every six hours to prevent death.  

My body doesn't seem to understand that the antibiotics are on its side.  So far, it has tried virtually every trick in the book to violently expel the antibiotics from my system.   I've tried to talk to my body about its behavior.  I told it that it was going to die if it didn't learn to get along with the antibiotics.  It didn't seem to care.  It is a stupid, stubborn little body - the kind of body that would die just to prove a point.  

I have since changed my angle.  I am now trying to appeal to my body's competitive side.  I told it that death means failure.  I asked it if it wanted to fail.  It made a gurgling sound which I interpreted to mean "no."  I said "Okay then, if you don't want to fail, I would suggest not dying.  Nobody wins if you die."  

I don't know whether or not I got through to it, but I am encouraged by the fact that my body has yet to follow through on dying.  Though I'd like to give myself credit for convincing my body not to die, the truth is there is another more plausible explanation for my continuing survival:  For all of its stubbornness, my body is also lazy - so lazy that it may forgo dying simply because it is too much work.   

I am Sorry, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor (Part 2 of My Neighbor Saga)

Today, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor, you managed to redeem yourself.
You see, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor, I managed to contract the Mutant-Death-Flu. This particular disease is merciless, as you may already know. I am sure the same thin walls which allow your musical conquests to enrich my environment did little to disguise my pathetic whimpering and violent retching as I lay dying on my bathroom floor.

In between vomiting sessions, I found myself curled into the fetal position beneath my toilet, staring at a wadded up Kleenex because I was sure it was the only thing keeping me in this world. I then realized this was the kind of illness one should not try to conquer alone. I needed medical attention.
The problem, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor, was that I needed a ride. Oh how desperately I needed a ride to the campus health center! You are the only person in my apartment complex who doesn't have a job, therefore the duty of being my hero fell upon you. I didn't want it to be you. I really didn't. But in the end, you were there for me.

When I was finally near enough to death to justify knocking on your door at 2:30 in the afternoon, you emerged like a bat seeing light for the first time. Your entire mouth was stained neon blue from the 44-ounce Slushy you were still clutching in your hands. A TV show, possibly Battlestar Galactica, was playing in the background. You were wearing that wretched V-neck sweater. Nonetheless, when you heard me plaintively request to be driven to a medical establishment, you sprung to action. You sprinted to retrieve your keys with the kind of grace only achieved by adult man-children wearing combat boots and tight, black tapered jeans. I truly appreciated your haste.
I slumped into your Subaru with the automatic seat belts. I didn't even mind that I was sitting on a week's worth of Burger King wrappers. You told me that you wouldn't hold it against me if I puked in your car. Thank you, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor.
I could tell you were trying your best to not talk about your life and how much you don't like it. When you couldn't think of anything else to talk about, you simply turned on your Moby CD really loud (it was super loud, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor) and left me in peace. Thank you.

You were driving really fast. You understood the urgency of my intestinal plight, and responded. Thank you. I am sorry I smelled like bile. Was that why you had to have your window open in the middle of February?
Upon my admittance to said medical establishment, you even came back to check in on me. This was completely unnecessary and awkward, but I admired your chivalry. You stood over my bed until you were absolutely certain that your heroic moment was over. Over, but not forgotten, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor. Over, but not forgotten.
Because of your bravery and quick, instinctive action, I hereby grant you 400 full repetitions of the chorus to "Yellow Submarine" free from my judgement. You earned it, Insomniac-Musician-Neighbor!