Everything I Own is Trying to Kill Me

As I type this, the room is filled with smoke. I have every window open, and the kitchen and living room fans are on, and it makes no difference. The cats have abandoned their usual raised perches, and have literally gone to ground, where the air is mostly clear.

I think I've figured out the problem. It started a couple of months ago. I started cooking much, much more often than I ever have in my life. I went from using the stove or oven maybe once or twice a month, to being the primary food preparer, using it at least once, and usually twice or more, daily. The second or third time I cooked something in the oven - likely bacon or chicken - there was a ton of smoke, even though the food wasn't burnt. I figured there was some kind of loose food item in the oven, burning up and making the smoke. Found nothing, and it kept happening intermittently. Long story a little shorter, I found that the baking pans I use to cook bacon suck balls, and when the temperature in the oven reaches about 350, they suddenly warp, causing a muffled "clang" sound, and apparently spraying grease all over the oven. So the NEXT time I cook something, I get the Towering Inferno. Good times.

I tend to lose socks. I wear them in the cold mornings, and they gradually work themselves off over the course of the afternoon. This often happens when I'm just lounging around, so they wind up under or behind the bed, or the couch, or whatever. I (or Mrs. Arone) collect them every week, but the number gets smaller, and I'm sure there's a huge sock nest somewhere in the apartment. So I'm short on socks, and Mackenzie brings me home a couple pair of new socks! "Sweet, thanks for thinking about me!" I put 'em on - they fit like a champ, which is actually rare, as I have one fat ankle (Long story. Trust me.) With my warm, comfy feet, I stand up to go into the other room, and immediately go completely ass-over-tits, as the socks fly out from under me as if made of inside-out banana peels. Turns out that the socks are coated with some kind of space-age sweat-repellent which also functions as a floor-repellent. They are nice and toasty, but to this day, when I wear them, I have to repeat the phase "CONSTANT VIGILANCE" in my head every time I try to step from the carpet to the wood floor.

The three cats seem to be in a competition to see which one of them can murder me first. A clear, empty room is still an obstacle course because of cats weaving between my legs as I walk, or plopping down in front of me as I'm about to step down right there, hands full of dishes, or leaving a nearly-invisible puddle of piss right on the edge of the carpet/floor border, so I step in it, go flying, and break a hip.

When I'm found dead in the middle of the room, with no clues as to the cause of my demise, IT WAS THE CATS.  Disregard the suicide note, as I think I saw Trudy practicing her penmanship last week...