I make napalm and blow up my house.
Don't ask. I don't even remember doing it, but what is left of the bathtub looks like it's been through an atomic explosion. I have a receipt in my pocket for enough cat litter to supply an animal shelter and there are five empty fuel tanks in the back of my car.
More than enough of both to gut a house.
More than enough to blast my Ethan Allen couch clear across the street and litter tiny shards of my dishes across the lawn. More than enough to sink slivers of my coffee table into the porch railings and launch my Henkle Harris dining room set high enough that half of it landed in the trees.
I tell the police that it was the pilot light, the temperamental flame that regularly blows out and fills the house with gas all day long while I'm at work. The refrigerator must have kicked on.
I guess these things just happen.
They don't believe me.
What follows is my overactive imagination and an ode of sorts to one of my favorite books ever written.
No, not fucking Twilight . . .
There will be blood.
All standards apply:
Hadley Hemingway is the flower to my honeybee - this is for us, bb.
No copyright infringement intended.
. . . and as ever . . .
This ain't no fucking love story, yo.