Fire Fighting in 2009

Irony. I fucking love it. Love it like having my mouth burned by pizza cheese or tripping over in public when I’m by myself. It causes pain and finds a perfect, poetic way to humiliate me.

The thing is, I wrote ‘Poodles on Leashes and the Lack of Firemen’ long before the most browbeaten version of myself graced the lower part of this country; rather than after a triumphant survival of bullshit and deplorable treatment. Trapped in thinking I was with the person who would love me enough to rescue me from a burning room, little would I think that he actually would more likely ask me to throw his belongings and my money to him over the flames, grab a Lipton Ice Tea from the fridge and then say before departing, “It turns out you’re not actually that important to me anymore. Sorry. Really.”

So I got burnt, and the wounds have barely turned into scars. I also played with fire after that, trying to tell myself there was no way I’d get burnt again; this was the imbecile version of myself.

I thought of investing in a [metaphorical] fire-proof jumpsuit with cold-hearted seams and tough exterior. But I decided it just might be more practical, from now on, to not be too afraid to evacuate if there is ever that first sign of smoke.