I was such a little pyromaniac as a kid. Loved to set things aflame – toys especially. Matches, lighters, firecrackers… All could and would be used in my nihilistic hobby. One of my favourite tricks was to steal a can of deodorant – from my brother, say – and combine it with a disposable lighter in order to create a flamethrower with which to immolate some poor defenceless household item.
Basically I was Sid in Toy Story, only with longer hair and worse dental hygiene.
One time I bit off more than my fuzzy green gnashers could chew: Don’t recall exactly how it happened, but somehow a sequence of events led to a plastic bag, full of clothes to be donated to charity, being set alight. I remember being gripped with panic, and sprinting outside to the patio – yes, we had a patio, I had a bourgeois upbringing, that’s not the point – where my mum was relaxing with a cool drink. Alcoholic, doubtless. Anyway, I begged her not to go back into the house, clearly fearing that the small conflagration would spread through the entire manshion-like structure – yes, yes, privileged, whatever – and raze everything to ashes. My mother still has the scar on her hand from putting out that blaze.
Given the multitude of things I tried to ignite, and the incredibly reckless creation of the aforementioned flamethrowers in particular, it is almost miraculous that I didn’t manage to blow one or both of my hands off. Yet, I never so much as singed a hair on my pretty(ish) head. Perhaps this fortune signified that it was my true calling; I should have become an arsonist.
Molotov cocktail, anyone?
Solidarity, brothers & sisters…Ⓐ