Not Quite Blogworthy, Part Two

I was too big of a pussy to have a rebellious streak. The one thing I can remember doing was lighting a fire in a metal trashcan in my basement as a fourteen year old. It quickly set off the fire alarm upstairs and the last thing I remember about it was crying to my parents.

I was burning pages out of an old Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. Weeks earlier I had cut out all the pages with models on them and thrown the rest of the magazine away. One day I came home and decided I couldn't bear the risk of embarrassment if someone found the pictures so I decided to burn them.

I didn't want to do it outside for fear of torching the whole neighborhood like my brother almost did with some fireworks a few years earlier. Eventually I decided the Donald Duck wastebasket in my bedroom was safe enough because it was metal, but I also brought a bucket of water down from the garage just in case. Then I lit a match.

So anyway I'm on the white couch upstairs with my mom and my stepdad and I'm crying. But the thing is I didn't actually want to cry; the whole thing was kind of a charade. After the alarm went off and I knew I'd be in trouble, I calculated that crying would make my parents think something Serious or Important had just happened and I'd be better off in the long run if I were shown some compassion instead of being punished for almost burning down their fucking house.

And I guess it worked. I'm sure I got some nominal punishment, but I don't remember it. What I do remember was Mom asking if I was burning something important and that she would show me how to use the shredder in her office if I needed to get rid of anything sensitive. But I just lied and said I wasn't burning anything in particular, that I just wanted to see what it looked like.

Apparently I was more afraid of being exposed as a masturbator than I was of my parents thinking I was one of those dead-eyed pale kids who light shit on fire for no reason.