Warning: This has nothing to do with books.
Instead, I would like to share an embarrassing moment with you, dear reader, in which I put my oven on self-cleaner, causing smoky fumes to fill up my entire apartment. I had to open windows, and it's Edmonton and it is winter and it is cold. Then, just as the smell of chemicals got so powerful I couldn't really breathe and I started to wonder whether cleaning your oven is at all good for your health, two neighbours knocked on my door to find out whether a) I had a fire and b) they were in danger and c) I was in danger.
I appreciated the knock, since that does sort of table one of my longest-held fears, that I would die alone inside my apartment and no one would notice until my colleagues at work decided I had been a slacker for far too long.
Also, though, terribly embarrassing. And cold, cold, cold. My throat kind of hurts now.
And why is my life more like a bad sitcom than a cool romp of romance and chance? In a proper romance novel, my neighbour would be a gorgeous man who would be overwhelmed by the sight of me in my sweatpants and sweatshirt, my hair mussed from, well, nothing, and we would somehow live happily ever after, perhaps after striking up a really fantastic conversation about how we both mythologize Pierre Elliott Trudeau.
No? Not how my life works? Pity.