Dear the Fire Alarm,
Look, I am so glad that you work. Because knowing that you work gives me the reassurance that, should my apartment catch fire in the next month or so before I move, I will at least be awake, making it a lot easier to escape, so hopefully I will not die in a towering faux-adobe inferno.
The thing is, fire alarm, it would have been nice if you had not decided to assert your functionalness last night, between the hours of 2:30 and 4:00 in the morning, four times. That was kind of totally unnecessary. Although it really was super fun to hang out with my neighbours as we all stood around in our pyjamas on the sidewalk in the dark! Oh, wait, I mean it was NOT FUN AT ALL.
Also, do you know how cold it has been? The weather in Los Angeles has been practically autumnal for the past few days. And I mean “autumn in Ontario, Canada,” not “autumn in So-Cal.” And also, I live in a desert, which means that at night it is colder still. The other day I was walking home in the rain, and it was so cold and wet that my bad ankle started aching. Seriously. Like, am I seventy-five years old? If I was a senior citizen, this is the point where I would complain about my rheumatism and give a young man a shiny nickel to run down to the pharmacy and pick me up some aspirin. But, no, I am a twenty-four year old, which means that instead, I hang my head and sigh at the fact that I have the right ankle of a seventy-five year old and then pour myself another gin and tonic (sans tonic).
So, what I am trying to say is, fire alarm, what was the point of all that brou-ha-ha last night? No point. No point at all.
Cheers,
Xandra A.