Urgh, Alarm

All right, Smoke Alarm. This is your third or fourth strike. The oven being on does not mean a fire, and I'm beginning to resent the fact that everyone in this building must think I'm the worst cook ever. I mean, things don't even smell of burning before you go off. I nearly set a bagel on fire a few years ago without setting an alarm off. I mean, sure, we set the alarm off a bit at my last apartment, too, but there was actual smoke involved. And it wasn't on average once every few weeks.

It looks like you've been there since the 80s. My oven is no spring chicken, either. You'd think I could trust that the two of you would know each other well enough by now to work together, rather than sending me sprinting across the kitchen when my chicken tenders have been in the oven for a mere five minutes. Some of the tortilla chip breading may have fallen off and turned dark brown, but that's hardly a fire. Maybe you just thought it was too hot in here or something. But you'll need to take that up with the radiators, not me.

I appreciate you alerting me to even the slightest pollution of my kitchen air, but I have house plants for that, and... just don't do it again this month, okay? Because I'm jumping when my music changes now thanks to you, and I don't want that to happen again anytime soon.