December 8th, 2008

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I had a stove. It was an ancient and venerable relic of a stove, with many charming quirks and peculiar eccentricities (for extremely specific and non-normative definitions of the word "Charming", which may or may not include "causing poetically creative swearing" and "bringing one closer to the probably-nonexistent-deity through fear of death"). Most recently, when turned on, it lit on fire.

Mind you, this was an electric stove.

Yesterday, it was removed by the landlord, and replaced with a shiny new stove. Not a particularly special stove, but possessed of certain understated merits, to wit: it's astounding Non-House-Burninating Feature.

A certain amount of sedate rejoicing happened. Various third parties were brought in by myself and my room-mate to witness the new arrival. A new household holiday was discussed. It fell to my lovely gentleman friend to point out that which had, for obvious reasons, so far escaped my notice: The glory of properly functioning household appliances is that one doesn't have to spend time thinking about them. So stop it.

The thought-regime of the new stove may take some getting used to.

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