You wanna talk about a short fuse? How about an illusion?
Start with me: age ten, one "phantom" bomb, and one lit punk. The driveway needs a little loose gravel. Yeah.
A lit punk still smells like freedom and youth. The ten-year-old Aaron drops the glowing tip of that thing on the fuse and zap--nothing. I wait, the smoke dances into the afternoon air, and my little heart revolts, trying to run without the rest of the body.
At ten, my feet are a bit big for the job, and clumsy me skids across the loose gravel, crash. Bloody knees, a little red badge of courage for summer fun.
And bang. The bomb explodes, sending little specks of sawdust skyward. God bless America. Thank China for the cheap explosives.