One afternoon, I had been sitting in front of my computer for a couple hours while nursing a severe headache. I was convinced that I could smell something burning but couldn’t find the source. I smelled around my computer, investigated the refrigerator and stove and everything else electric in my apartment. Then I decided it was the headache playing tricks on my brain. And THEN I thought “Jesus Christ, this is it… I am having a stroke. Right? People always say that a a person who is stroking out can smell burnt toast while it happens. Fuck, fuck, fuck, this is it! This is it! This is how it’s going to end.” I could smell burnt toast and my brain felt like somebody filled my skull with drunk scorpions. I thought of writing a note to my loved ones before my imminent death but then scraped the idea, trumped by the powerful philosophy: “Fuck It”. I’m the one dying! Let those left living, idly guess about how I felt about them at the funeral reception. I wasn’t dying anyways, in fact, my neighbor had left his stove on before he went to work. I’m not sure, but I suppose that there must have been something in the oven because the entire floor of the building was filled with smoke and it was billowing out of his windows into the summer sky. Idiot. I managed two photos before being cajoled back into my apartment while the firemen fought the good fight and extinguished whatever there was to be extinguished in the apartment. I guess I learned something from this; I learned that the building manager is a very tolerant women, because this asshole set his place on fire and wasn’t evicted. And I used to get nervous about smoking inside! Ridiculous.