A Full Denial

I'd like to address the unfounded rumors I've been hearing everywhere about my interest in fire. Now, I fully admit that I like a nice campfire and am entranced by a backyard fire pit. I love a candlelit dinner, a barbecue lunch, and a breakfast buffet served out of chafing dishes. When I think of holidays, I think of jack-o'-lanterns glowing in the night, their features flickering in and out. But there's nothing unhealthy about any of that: we all love these things and the fire that makes them possible. If I might spend a little more time appreciating them than you, it doesn't indicate a problem. I should be able to linger over thoughts of fire without it being misinterpreted as some sort of religious mania (or worse). It hardly means that I'm enslaved to the dark burning heart of the searing flame god, he who licks across the world leaving ash kisses on its blistered flesh. It's not like I wander the warehouse district late at night with a sacramental can of gasoline, lighting up the darkness with impromptu altars. At no time have I been known to sit with a brand new Bic lighter, flicking it on and off until all the fuel is used up, chanting "holy, holy, holy" all the while. Finally, I have never, ever, paid a prostitute an exorbitant amount of money to dress in a red and orange outfit of my own design and refer to herself as "The Madonna of Conflagration" while she sticks lit matches between my toes.

Honestly, I don't know how these things get started.