It's 93 degrees in Tidewater, Virginia, with a humidity level that makes it feel like it's over 100. With this in mind, what's a fun-filled way to spend a leisurely Friday afternoon?
Burning shit, of course.
I am an organized girl. I like things filed away, nice in neat, in it's own manila folder, ready and waiting for me to locate it at a moment's notice. Blaker just likes to toss things in a pile and hope like hell that I'll eventually file it for him. When you combine his aversion to filing with my lack of time for any activity that doesn't involve being the maid/servant/bitch of my needy offspring, you end up with towering piles of paperwork every few months. Towering. As in, mountainous, yo.
We have a shredder. I don't know exactly where it is or how it works, but I know we have one, because I'm the one who bought it. I vaguely remember the box being green and white. I thought Blaker might enjoy shredding things from time to time, being a boy who likes tools and all. I don't even know if he ever opened the box. And I will never open it myself, because I have no desire to shred or operate potentially unsafe manual instruments. Nope. I prefer to burn stuff.
Now, one must consider that in my lifetime, the home that I have lived in has burned down.....2?....3? times. Yes, that's right. I know it's burned TO THE FUCKING GROUND at least twice, perhaps three times. After the second time, particularly when you are a child and a bit fuzzy on the details, it all starts to run together. Although I have never set any of the fires that devastated my family (to my memory, but I was young during them all, so it's possible I guess), I am rather accident prone, so it's probably not the BEST idea for me to play with fire. Does that stop me? Hell, no.
I love fire. I love setting fire to things. I love the heat. I love the different colors of the flames. I love the smell. I love the slight pain when you run your finger through a candle flame. I love to watch the ashes float away in the breeze.
My name is Haley, and I am a pyromaniac. Deal with it.
SO, despite the heat, I decided to give up on the idea of filing a damn thing and just burn it all. I mean, could there really be anything all that important in there? Probably not. Do I really care if there is? Not really. I loaded up an armload of paperwork, took it outside, and lit the pile ablaze. It was hot. I sweated a lot. But it was fabulous. I felt like I had lost ten pounds (which I may well have done, because as I mentioned, I sweated A LOT) without even knowing exactly what I was burning.
Which makes me wonder. How light would I feel if I just set my life on fire?
We don't need no water, let the motherfucker burn. Burn, motherfucker, burn.