Fear sits on the back burner, simmering, flirting with a boil. I anticipate the danger, the disaster, the catastrophe. But I ignore it. The bubbling slough of my childhood terrors--nefarious, breeding--will overrun its aluminum pot (sure to give me Alzheimers, one day), will snuff the flames of the gas burner, which will, in turn, fill the house with fumes so that I, by lighting a candle in the bathroom to reduce the unpleasantness that is choking the air, will ignite blowing the house to kingdom come.
Because I am unlucky, I will survive. Homeless, covered with burns, I will be standing there comforted by the fact that my fart has been eradicated and, in light of this accident, my fears are no longer recognizable, no longer significant.
(Except for the knowledge that I will get Alzheimers one day...)
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