This is all wrong
There was a time -- long ago, it seems now -- that a friend and I decided we would construct a bomb. This, I am convinced, is a perfectly respectable aspiration for an adolescent male. Most young guys satisfy themselves with an article or two about explosives; others go the extra mile and ignite cans of bug spray or detonate tennis balls filled with the sawed-off heads of strike-anywhere matches.
My friend and I, we had already done all of that. The thing about us -- the thing that distinguished us from legions of 15- and 16-year-old boys -- was, to put it simply, dedication. We were committed. Pyromania is normal at that age; we were in the throes of something deeper: an obsessive appetite for destruction.
So we enlisted a Persian associate to acquire the requisite chemicals to make this happen. I think it's delicious, in light of recent world events, that our ingredient acquisitor was of Middle Eastern descent. And when those jars filled with concentrated nitric and sulfuric acid showed up in my mom's garage -- well, that was delicious too.
What we attempted was incredibly stupid, incredibly unlawful and incredibly stupid. Also, incredibly dangerous: A real chemist would have used several layers of protective clothing and probably a respirator when mixing those chemicals -- the very fumes of which can inflict severe injuries to a normal human's eyes, nose, throat and lungs. We sufficed with a thin dust mask, some goggles, and the very scientific practice of holding our breath while pouring the corrosive fluids. I will always remember the metal tops of those glass jars, so punished by the acid inside that they drooped flimsily as if made of melted plastic.
And let's not even discuss how imbecilic it is to indiscretely mix illegal chemicals in a garage that is open to a neighborhood street, not to mention the legal consequences of even plotting to make a device that destructive. It is with a profound sense of relief that I can recall not having injured or incriminated ourselves that day.
When our experiment failed, I poured the steaming results onto the driveway for all to see -- instantly wiping the cement clean of all impurities and vaporizing a few ants in the process. We -- my friend, myself and the ants -- stared at the newly scoured spot with the same innocent curiosity that led us to so many uninnocent things. I can't help but think of how, in that moment, we shared so much in common with the ants, one step away from ruining our lives with our own ignorance. As if to illustrate the concept, one unfortunate little ant had its head and abdomen immediately disintegrated as it investigated the expanding puddle, leaving only an interestingly severed thorax.
There's a point I want to make tonight. We may not have ruined our lives that fateful day, but there's been a nagging doubt in my mind ever since. Did I really walk away unscathed? What if some of those invisible fumes permanently altered my brain chemistry, leading to the temperamentality and malcontentedness that now characterizes my adult life? This persistent, irrational doubt has been a voice whispering in the back of my mind for years. But just before writing this, my doubt was extinguished by a sudden realization: if I wasn't pretty malcontent to begin with, I wouldn't have been so keen to lay waste to a certain high school parking lot with my newly minted pipebomb. So I can rest a bit easier knowing I didn't do any lasting damage to either myself or anyone else -- except for a few ants, which, if my theory of the afterlife is correct, I will be punished for later.
Who can say what causes a couple of kids to pursue such wicked intentions? A trained psychologist, that's who.
My friend and I, we had already done all of that. The thing about us -- the thing that distinguished us from legions of 15- and 16-year-old boys -- was, to put it simply, dedication. We were committed. Pyromania is normal at that age; we were in the throes of something deeper: an obsessive appetite for destruction.
So we enlisted a Persian associate to acquire the requisite chemicals to make this happen. I think it's delicious, in light of recent world events, that our ingredient acquisitor was of Middle Eastern descent. And when those jars filled with concentrated nitric and sulfuric acid showed up in my mom's garage -- well, that was delicious too.
What we attempted was incredibly stupid, incredibly unlawful and incredibly stupid. Also, incredibly dangerous: A real chemist would have used several layers of protective clothing and probably a respirator when mixing those chemicals -- the very fumes of which can inflict severe injuries to a normal human's eyes, nose, throat and lungs. We sufficed with a thin dust mask, some goggles, and the very scientific practice of holding our breath while pouring the corrosive fluids. I will always remember the metal tops of those glass jars, so punished by the acid inside that they drooped flimsily as if made of melted plastic.
And let's not even discuss how imbecilic it is to indiscretely mix illegal chemicals in a garage that is open to a neighborhood street, not to mention the legal consequences of even plotting to make a device that destructive. It is with a profound sense of relief that I can recall not having injured or incriminated ourselves that day.
When our experiment failed, I poured the steaming results onto the driveway for all to see -- instantly wiping the cement clean of all impurities and vaporizing a few ants in the process. We -- my friend, myself and the ants -- stared at the newly scoured spot with the same innocent curiosity that led us to so many uninnocent things. I can't help but think of how, in that moment, we shared so much in common with the ants, one step away from ruining our lives with our own ignorance. As if to illustrate the concept, one unfortunate little ant had its head and abdomen immediately disintegrated as it investigated the expanding puddle, leaving only an interestingly severed thorax.
There's a point I want to make tonight. We may not have ruined our lives that fateful day, but there's been a nagging doubt in my mind ever since. Did I really walk away unscathed? What if some of those invisible fumes permanently altered my brain chemistry, leading to the temperamentality and malcontentedness that now characterizes my adult life? This persistent, irrational doubt has been a voice whispering in the back of my mind for years. But just before writing this, my doubt was extinguished by a sudden realization: if I wasn't pretty malcontent to begin with, I wouldn't have been so keen to lay waste to a certain high school parking lot with my newly minted pipebomb. So I can rest a bit easier knowing I didn't do any lasting damage to either myself or anyone else -- except for a few ants, which, if my theory of the afterlife is correct, I will be punished for later.
Who can say what causes a couple of kids to pursue such wicked intentions? A trained psychologist, that's who.
posted by Jeweled Accumulation at 12:48 AM
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