I used to be terrified of fireworks, well, not all of them—just the ones that’d screech like tires turning on a freshly rained road.  And my fear didn’t necessarily come from this association—because I do, in fact, love to drive—but, rather from a peculiar fear, incarcerated within the confines of my body; it’s something even now I just cannot explain.  And it’s funny because I love fireworks in all their explosive glory.  Since childhood, my foolish unease of the screeching ones has subsided.  My favorite part about fireworks is setting them off, ya know?  Especially when they don’t explode.  And plenty of us might feel a dud firework is quite disappointing, yet I weirdly feel satisfied when this occurs; I don’t find it disappointing at all. Perhaps I get this from my father, or my mother’s father for that matter; they always seemed to be the ones lighting them off.  It’s our collective fascination with danger, I think: the chance of a little box of plastic and gunpowder exploding in our faces.  It really gets the blood pumping.  And, I believe it’s a similar fascination that allows me to love driving so.  I drive fast and I drive well.