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I was 13 years old. I had an addiction to fire. The shit fascinated me. One of my buddies and myself had an ongoing bet of sorts. Pull off a stunt bigger than the last one done by the other. Basically, who's flame penis was larger.
He came in one day, put hairspray on his hand, and lit it up. This was the first time either of us had pulled a stunt involving our own body. It was huge in my eyes. He didn't use much hairspray though, so the flame didn't last long.
I was determined to do something bigger. I decided I would light my whole shirt on fire. An hour of planning, a bottle of cologne, and one spark of the bright pink lighter later: I was a blazing ball of light.
In that hour of planning we decided I would just take the shirt off after a couple seconds of it being lit. Turns out that is much harder done than said.
I ran around for what seemed to me like hours (seconds in reality), and I remembered the lesson from the fireman at school. I stop, I drop, I roll. What they don't teach you in school is that this technique is not effective for chemical fires. One part gets smothered, and then re-lit as soon as it's exposed to another part again.
So, there I lay ablaze. No idea what to do from there. Incapable of even breathing anymore. I'm about to die and I know it.
The feeling hits. "Fuck it." That's exactly what went through my head. I looked death in the eyes and said, "Here I am." The most complete apathy I've ever experienced.
My shirt comes off. My buddy throws it outside to burn away. I'm alive.
I spent three months in the hospital, I learned a mean fucking lesson, I gained utmost respect for the flame I'm so fascinated by, and I will never fear death again.
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"The fact is that censorship always defeats its own purpose, for it creates, in the end, the kind of society that is incapable of exercising real discretion..." - Henry Steel Commager
"Punk rock music is great music played by really bad, drunk musicians." -Fat Mike
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