Sometimes my husband and I will have conversations that will jar a memory from my past and I’ll inadvertantly have to relive an unpleasant moment in my past that makes me wonder, how the hell am I still sane?
So this one memory has to do with my childhood home catching on fire, my bedroom to be exact. As a teenager I wrote tons of short stories and poetry and when I wrote something I didn’t like I’d tear the pages out of my journal and discard them on to the floor. I have three brothers, one older and two younger, when I would leave for work my brothers would enter my bedroom without my permission to steal money and change from my dresser. Well this one evening my little brother decided he was going to enter my room and try to make a flame thrower with my hairspray and a lighter. Now my room is covered in discarded papers from my writings flamable nail polishes and remover nearby where he decided to experiment with his instrument of destruction (mind you my mom is home doing nothing while this ish is happening), so that bad boy when up in flames extremely quickly.