We Didn't Start The Fire

Or, um. Yes, we did. If we is me. And is that too trite of a post title? It probably is, but I'm rusty, so cut me some slack. I've been in a fairly deep rut, and I'm trying to mentally climb out of it, but I feel more like that pregnant lady in Apocolypto trying to scramble out of a pit with a small child clinging to her leg. Except without being pregnant, and minus the child, but you get the feeling of futility and frustration, right? Anyway, it's mundane; I'm working on it. No need to fret. No suicide watch here. Just a little mid-life blah.
Now, back to my trite title. I accidentally tried to set my apartment on fire this evening. Good thing for smoke alarms, right? The place might be crawling with roaches and car burglars, but at least your smoke alarms are functioning, right? Right? Wrong. More like thanks to our water heater that only heats about five minutes of hot water, or we might've gone up in smoke. We being me, my fantastical dog, the roaches, and the other tenants of my building along with all of their worldly possessions.
I took the Boomy for a walk/run while T went to work out. We got home ripe and sweaty. I pre-heated the oven for some fish sticks and got in the shower to rinse off before preparing a tasty, if unoriginal, meal. I just happened to forget that the last time I used the oven, I didn't follow directions, threw the pre-cut pizza directly onto the rack and lost half of it to gravity. It was a smoky ordeal which I promptly forgot.
'Til I came out of the bathroom to find an equally steamed up apartment. The oven was smoking. The old pizza was actually on fire in there. Whew. Scary. I managed to not panic, take out the racks, and throw a wet towel on the burning cheese and toppings.
Not a fire fighter, but given my absentmindedness and short fuse lately, I'm quite pleased with myself. Just not looking forward to cleaning that oven.