The Grass-Fed Alarm

This is a story about one of those days, of which I have many, where I, a self-diagnosed misophonic, am continually denied the serenity I so crave.  In the aftermath I chose to achieve catharsis through the re-telling, aided by egregious ‘imbibery’ of all the alcoholic things.

On this day, I came home wanting nothing more than a delicious, plump grass-fed steak to replete the iron leaching out of my body at the blood moon rising.  That’s a less than delicate euphemism for my woman’s complaint, which is an archaic euphemism for the monthly river that flows from my loins.  I don’t even know why I’m elaborating on this point…

In any event, I lovingly placed the aforementioned slab of bovine in the frying pan for a quick sear and into the oven.  While I was waiting for my ancient stove to get with the programme, I realised I was hearing music from the corridor outside my bedroom.  No matter how sanguine one may be about living alone, if the sound is unexpected, and you’re me, you somersault over to the conclusion that someone has broken into your home to host a rave, which of course necessitates further investigation.  Would that that had been the truth. In reality, it was my burglar alarm.  The one whose existence I was unaware of, let alone its functional state.

With every keypad screaming, ‘DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!’

With speakers on the outside of the house blaring into the quiet night, as if I should prepare for an air strike.

With the seven-pound Scarf-Dog nipping at my heels, and barking madly at the sudden escalation in noise and pandemonium.

Why the pandemonium you ask?   First, I ran to the master bedroom closet, ripped the first keypad from the wall, and cut the wires with a paring knife. Then, I moved on to the foyer closet to do the same in a time I call my DIY SWAT Period.  Finally, I ripped the smoke alarms out of my ceiling, and on this third act of senseless aggression against my home, I became aware of the unlikelihood of my being able to scale the roof, and access the outside speakers.

At this point, I tore through all three floors searching for the fuse box.  In the event of future such occurrences, this testimony serves as a reminder that I should look in the garage first.  I turned off everything, only to discover, whilst standing in the dark dampness, that the alarm system was rigged to a battery.   On went the fuse box, and up I went to contemplate burning down the house.  During this mad dash, I later learned, I had unintentionally (intentionally) locked Scarf-Dog in a closet. He was most severely displeased upon his liberation.

Rational thinking, briefly, reasserted itself and a quick search of the paperwork left behind by the previous tenants yielded the work order from the installation of the blasted alarm.  The customer service representative strove to be most unhelpful and uninformed.  Despite his non-assistance, I eventually located the battery panel which, OF COURSE, was overheating. Reason was once again overtaken by the desire for immediate peace and gratification.  I asked the agent what would happen if I started slicing wires.  The agent declined to comment.  I took his silence as tacit encouragement and sliced my way to blissful silence.

There are no pictures of this meal because I’m still shaking from half an hour of jarring noise coming from every direction in my normally noiseless home.  My heart is permanently lodged in my throat and I’ve lost my appetite.  Nonetheless, I will be devouring every single morsel even if it kills me.

It’s the principle, you see.


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