Note to self: next time there is a fire in the restaurant below your flat and you have to hurriedly grab a garment to stay warm in uncertain circumstances, don’t grab the fluffy black vamp coat you got for Burning Man. It makes you look like a cheap whore checking in at the motel next door.
The concierge at the shitty motel thought I was very amusing.
(Among many brilliant quips posted on Facebook – at my request, I required laughs – was my aunt Mary Harron‘s comment: “It’s a good look, I say go for it.”)
Also, note to self: Check that the fire alarms installed by your dodgy landlord work next time you move into a new place. Discovering molten electrics after a near lethal inferno is less than fun.
But hey, enough of burnt fire alarms. Who wants to check out a fossilised power drill, rendered blistered and black?
Or what about this bottle of cleaning fluid that expanded violently from the heat, leaving a giant mutated plastic bubble in its wake?
The Quasimodo of cleaning fluid, if you will.
… I’ll stop now.
Don’t play with fire kids.