You'd point out the scars on your hands and arms when we walked home and your mom had quesadillas and Nesquik waiting for us in the kitchen.
2003-06-09
We were sitting on the top of a hill and the grass was stoking my allergies, making my eyes all itchy, but I'd rather sit there than on dirt, so everything was okay. You thumbed at the pack of strike-anywhere matches in your hand and wondered aloud what kind of plastic crap we had left to burn. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, American Gladiators, GI Joe. They had all been rubber banded to a synthetic pencil and sacrificed to the god of our shared amusement. The smoke was always black and the way they melted never seemed like the way plastic things should melt. We would make sure the face and arms bubbled and fused to the rest of the body. The smell from this was awful, but we did it a few times a week for an entire summer. It felt wrong at the time - destroying perfectly good stuff - but it was a more permanent way of getting rid of our pasts. They're all buried somewhere along the chain link fenceline.
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