Your Fifteen Minutes of Flame Are OverI had imagined laughing with satisfaction while our house was engulfed in flame, but I couldn't get the gasoline to light. Someone must have tampered with the gas cans while I was prying the diamond out of Susan's engagement ring. As I threw match after lighted match at damp curtains, I realized that after everything I had been through — after a high-speed, headlong drive into a tree, after slicing off two of my own fingers, and after pouring boiling acid on my own face — my failure to win Jeff Probst's new reality show Insurance Fraud was imminent.
[Wait. Did I actually manage to insert some social commentary into these random writings? I hate when that happens.
And I love it, too.]