In my freshman year of high school I was a terrified mess of anxiety and uncertainty. I had no idea who I was, what I wanted, and a plague of self-hatred was setting in (something that would affect me for the next six years of my life). I didn’t want to be noticed, looked at, or spoken to. Good thing I donned the bleakest articles of clothing I could find, put on eyeliner like I was icing a cake, and dyed my hair Vampire Red once a month. That certainly made sure I didn’t stand out, or acquire a pathetically large amount of stares everywhere I went. It made sure most people steered clear of me, and whispered amongst themselves (instead of directly addressing me), though. At least I never listened to Marilyn Manson (until I met Kelly – long after that stage of my life had passed).
All of that aside, I did manage to make a few friends in one of my classes – Art, of course.
I can still remember when I first met the three equally confused adolescents that would forever change me, and for whom I blame for my curse. Chaz, Jennifer, and Johnathan.
On one random day, convinced to skip homeroom, the three of us met in the field that separated the high school building from the closest neighborhood. Winter was approaching, and the humidity level was so low it sucked the moisture right out of your skin. My nose peeled and flaked so bad that year, I had my mother commenting on it. The grass and shrubbery that grew from the field stood tall, brown, and brittle – a biting breeze swaying it lullingly. The houses blocking the horizon were awkward white elephants that spoke of the suburban world our rural town was turning into.
Pulling out a pack of Marlboro Reds and settling onto the ground, Chaz’s black tipped fingers pulled out a hand full of the sticks and handed one to each of us. So there we sat, skipping class, and watching the grass.
After a general assortment of snaky, senseless discussions, we each flicked our finished smokes out into the field, carelessly neglecting to snub the bastards out.
Here is where it begins.
After laughing at Chaz hogtieing himself with his own shoelaces, and listening to Jennifer degrade him in her fake Cuban accent, we arose to leave behind the tranquility of that moment. And realized that the grass was smoking.
It started smoking more.
And then, of course, the fire began.
All I can remember thinking, is Fuck Fuck Fuck Shit Fuck before all of us leaped on it and began trying to stomp it out… to no avail.
This, readers, is what we call a brush fire.
I still have the Converse I had been wearing… the sole of the left one is melted. I loved those shoes – they were one of the best pair of Converse I have ever owned. They lasted me for years – they saw me through so many adventures and experiences. Not like the Converse of today, pieces of shit that they are. Now I buy a pair and I’m lucky if they make it 4 months without ripping down the sides and peeling apart. My ex said it was the canvas – that I needed to invest in a pair of leather Converse.
Fuck.
That.
Anyway. The brush fire – right. So we leave, don’t tell anyone, and the fire department eventually shows up to extinguish the now awesome-fire-of-doom. I still don’t understand why no one said anything about it to us, or why we weren’t caught. Maybe because it was off school property? I don’t know. In any case, we were dumb-fucks.
And so that was the beginning of my fire curse.
Two years later I caught my room on fire, melting its interior, and causing a hell of smoke damage throughout the rest of my house.
Six months later I caught the bathroom on fire and melted the trashcan, the wall, and the counter.
One year later I was pulling a pan of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven, with a tea towel (bad idea). One end of it slung out of my grip, hit the interior of the oven, and erupted into flames. I threw it in the sink along with the cookies. It melted the sink (cheap ass plastic sink – what is the world coming to?).
By my freshman year of college, no more of these incidences had taken place, and I was convinced that the curse had ended.
Until I met Kelly, who showed me how to breath flames.
I caught her bed on fire.
And so, with the exception of lighting cigarettes, I make sure I steer clear of fire and anything that could potentially be flammable while lighting said cigarettes.
No candles, no incense, no traditional grilling, and no campfires for me.
I’m cursed.
Ironically my father is a retired fire-fighter.
HA.
In reality, I’m pretty sure I’m just a dumb-ass who doesn’t pay attention to safety precautions.
At least I wear my seat belt.
-Nyn
Eyehatecows 
