Last Tuesday night the roomie asked me to blow out two candles before I went to bed. They were big square red things on tall ornate wooden posts.

I forgot.

Our smoke detector had no battery in it. It always went off when we cooked.

One of the candles went out after burning down and splashing red wax all over the carpet. The other burned down and it's wooden post caught fire. The wooden coffee table underneath it caught and smoldered orange and filled the apartment with thick white smoke.

There were 30 or 40 bottle rockets in the top drawer as well as some Neal Stephenson paperbacks. When the rockets went off at 8 am, we both woke and charged into the smoky living room. Since there was just a huge orange smoldering and not any open flame, I picked it up, carried it outside, and chucked it into the pure white snow. As it flew from my hands the air movement kindled an exploding flame that last only a moment before the table landed upside down in the snow. The roomie didn't try to help the situation. Instead he stood there and berated me as I took action to prevent the situation from becoming worse.

The fire department was mad about the smoke detector. The roomie was mad about the carpet and the furniture. They were his candles. He burned something like 10 a day, on wooden posts, on wine bottles, in little glass dishes. So I decided not move into a new place with him, as I'd agreed. He was mad, but he's over it. It was my fault, but I feel he should share in the responsibilty due to his candle fetish and compulsive wax burning tendencies. He'd lit those fucking hazards.

So we were lucky. Saved by bottle rockets.
2:30 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm