The fireplace exploded last night

All of a sudden there was a huge pop. And Butters and I were showered with glass. Well, more like pecked. Most of the glass in one panel of the screen just cracked and shattered to the brick slab below. Now our crappy, apparently un-heat treated glass fireplace doors match our carpet that was burnt last year when the wood shifted and spilled flaming debris into the living room. Again, crouched right beside it.

Speaking of things that go pop in the night. Lady Gaga rocks my world. Bad Romance sealed the deal for me.

Anyway, so then I'm telling my friend Matt at work about this, and his own fireplace story totally beats mine. He catches the reflection of his kitten in his fireplace glass door. What?! She's inside! He races over to get her out, and she goes running around the flames. Yup, there was a fire going. And apparently this fireplace is roomy. The cat then leaps out of the fireplace, smoking. But safe.

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Before I was once again rudely interrupted from a writing interlude, I realized The Paris Review may not be the best place for a story I've been working on since I was 17; it was meant for Seventeen magazine, but now I'm too old to even contribute to the darn fiction contest--they did away with the cool consistent fiction column. Do our teenagers only need introductions to clothes, makeup, and acronyms like BFF, and not literary culture...

I went in search of something else to contribute to and remembered what Patti Petalson submits to in the Edward Burn's movie Purple Violets. The Paris Review. Another story perhaps. I need something 17ish. But may regret it.

Will check out the Writer's Market tonight.