Dinner prep was going well. The peppers and onions were almost done, bun was in the toaster. The final step was to fry up my veggie burger. Grabbing for the non-stick spray from the cabinet, it falls to the floor, hitting the nozzle. The can spins around my floor, pushed by the steady spray of grease. I go to grab it, in doing so I slam to the ground not realizing it had been covered in a non-stick coating. Still reeling from the pain, I finally grab the canister trying to control the mad stray which, having lifted it up, has now cover half my kitchen. Needing some help hoisting myself up, I reach for the fridge’s handle, which (you guessed it) is covered in grease. I abruptly slam back down to the floor. At this point the pepper and bread start to smoke. I get to my knees and manage to turn off the stove. Steadying myself on the counter, I get to my feet. Wobbing across my kitchen like a new born fawn, I throw the still spraying can in the sink. My dinner is burnt, my body is bruised, and my kitchen is non-stick. I wish I could say this was an odd occurrence but, unfortunately, this is just what it’s like to be me.