Pyromaniac. People throw that word around so casually, like it’s funny. Somebody will be at a bonfire and start their marshmallow on fire, and a charlatan remarks, “Dude, you’re a pyromaniac!” It’s similar to how little people get pissed when you call them midgets.
     Obviously, the only reason I even care is because I am in fact what you would call a fire lunatic. I don’t mind the term pyromaniac itself (it is technical); What gets me mad is how it’s tossed around without any thought, like it’s not an actual condition real people suffer with.
     As if we’re not wracked with temptation whenever we pass a 350 count strike-anywhere matchbox in the camping aisle of Wal-Mart, or when our eye catches a brand-new windproof zippo lighter. Take my word for it--it happens.
     I will admit that our inner desires aren’t always obvious, like the gleam in the pupil of a recovering alcoholic upon spotting a fresh bottle of brandy. And yet you honestly believe my thoughts are innocent when you light a Cuban in my face? It has taken me years to get where I am today. 
     I used to be a smoker back then, but I want to be clear. I didn’t smoke for the tobacco. I smoked for the tingling sensation at the back of my throat, the aftertaste of heat on my tongue, the ashy chalk under my nails, and more than anything, the burns. I would smoke through the filter until it was a stub just to feel the addictive singe on the front of my chapped lips and fingertips. An ashtray was out of the question--my body served as a fine alternative.
     I’ve since quit, abandoning the shallow practice after discovering a far more suitable habit. Not that it’s any less dangerous, and not just for me. Oh no, this habit of mine is far more fatal.
Here’s how it goes: Throughout the entire month, I don’t so much as lay an eye on the flame. You might imagine how excruciating this process is, but it must be endured. Suspense purifies the release. Think of me as a werewolf satisfying my transformation.
     Said transformation occurs near the middle of every month on a weekend, on my day off. This allows me to spend the entire day attending to nothing besides my greatest pleasure. No food and definitely no water. The front door of my home is locked, as is the entrance to my sacred den, in which a stranger would be wary after searching for a light and finding none. My only furniture is a single rug from the sands of Saudi Arabia where the sun beats down mercilessly. On this rug, in this dark abyss, this is where I lie. It’s not important whether my eyes stay awake or shut. The den is where I think about fire, flame, burning, singing. Beautiful, vivid images of whatever my heart desires.
     And then it is time.