I had a troublesome weekend. Nothing to do. Everyone was out of town. Everyone who had the money to do it spent the weekend golfing in Palm Springs. I’d like to learn to golf, but I don’t think it’s the appropriate thing to take up when you’re not incredibly wealthy. It’s horrendously expensive. The equipment alone will set you back a ways, then there’s the country club membership, the private one-on-one instructors, the whole new wardrobe, and of course, the Prada golf bag. I think that I’d be a good golfer – last time I miniature golfed I hit a hole-in-one on the windmill. Granted, we weren’t putting into the windmill yet, we were still on the country house, but I think it shows extraordinary talent to be able to bypass the first hole and hit directly into the second one.

 

Left alone in Los Angeles, I sat at home and sulked, and decided to eat a frozen pizza. When we were little my mom wouldn’t buy food that was “bad for you,” so I have a soft spot in my heart for things that I only got to eat at friends houses: sugar cereal, pop tarts, and frozen pizza. I turned on the oven to preheat it and then, if you must know, went to the bathroom. When I came back to the kitchen it smelled like gas. Not knowing exactly what the problem was, I opened the broiler to see if the pilot light was lit. It didn’t seem to be but I couldn’t quite tell, so I stuck my head a little further into the broiler to take a closer look, at which time the pilot light ignited and sent flames shooting towards my face like the fireball in BACKDRAFT. My eyelashes and eyebrows went up in flames, and the hair surrounding my face began to singe. I pulled my head out of the oven, grabbed a towel and smothered my face, quickly extinguishing the fire, covering my kitchen floor with burnt human hair-bits. I didn’t realize that eyelashes are different from the rest of the hair on the human body and that they’re actually made of plastic. Somehow, my eyelashes melted together making it quite difficult to blink. I had to cut them off entirely.


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