Sparklers, Bugs and a dash of Fear - a recipe for trouble?

As I have already portrayed myself in an honest, sweet-as-a-marshmallow manner so far, I've yet to inform you of my hidden fears, which are neatly stashed underneath my teddy bear-strawn bed alongside the 'dreaded' old song-writing book that became a sharp-talking haven for myself at the age of eleven. Yikes, if I had even bothered to muster up a tough-as-dog-eaten-leather-boots persona right at the beginning of setting up the blog (almost a week ago today; the countless downpours of mineral-lacking rain makes time pass by even quicker, if you dare to believe it). I reckon that I would've tripped over my unshaved legs within a short period of time - judging by the amount of times a complain escapes my lips and makes itself known to the world, putting on a steady, cool-without-knowing-or-expressing-it act would never have lasted long, despite my yearning to look and be as iced tea cool as some girls my own age. A teenhood fantasy which specially exists in my extreme lack of bedtime dreams; sleeping with a vibrantly Tango-ed tiger in my arms hardly gives me any head-starters to quality as one of those people, does it? Well, let's move on.

Nobody, regardless how much onyx black eyeliner you apply on your panda-shaded eyelids at the crack of dawn or sophisticated style has earnt you plaudits at the top fashion magazine (yet another teen fantasy that makes my taupe-powered eyes roll dramatically), is immune to the powerful, unquenchable emotion widely known as fear; despite my sincerest efforts to combat my rather pathetic uneasiness surrounding needle-sized bugs, busy-as-a-bee, um, bees and anything which crawls, buzzes (like a vibrating mobile; no, I promise from my torn-off Bratz doll's head that I do not jump in fright at the sounds my smartphone makes) and makes a life-threatening dare to move towards my direction, which typically results in a mini panic attack and ice-shattering squeals of fright that sends trembles across the house and endless cups of teas that my parents happen to be drinking.

Yes, I have lost count about the amount of times that I've been reminded (albeit gently; a carnivore temper like mine ought to never be provoked when my blood is boiling dangerously) to not allow tiny creatures create a vicious storm of terror evade my body, but, when the kettle-hot sun is shining on your face and handing you the title of a magnet (unfortunately not a babe one, which I, alongside other fly-detesting girls, would naturally prefer) for the mighty beats of the fly kingdom, all reminders of maintaining a steady, smooth operator manner are flown out of the window. Literally. Or, as my brother prefers to do (possibly for my obvious disgustment and my slightly green-tinged countenance), flush the sacrificed fly down the toilet, its doom lying in wait at the local dumpyard. So, I take it, when the time comes, that I will not be pinned down onto my uncomfortable chair and forced to state my reasons for my life-long dislike of sticky-like-ribs, hot flush-provoking summers? Flies and the bathroom justify my causes, without a single doubt.

Eventually, I gradually take off my prim-and-proper armour and store it into a cabinet in preparation of the impending summer as soon as the leaves on high-and-mighty trees slowly turn to a radiant, golden colour and fall to the ground; hardly any bugs or flies, except for a few here-and-there spiders, have all but disappeared (into a region that most would rather not know), so I like to believe that my seasonal fear has gone into hibernation and will not be seen until the next spring - or, if spring completely takes an extended vacation in a luckier country (whom, when I'm still shivering inside my Hello Kitty jumper in the middle of June, summer, as only pointed out a mere few months ago.

Yet, something always has to make itself known when you least expect it, right? Fear would not be half as spine-tingling if it didn't always sneak upon behind you without making so much as a lowly-heard footstep (I could hardly imagine it could wear a pair of 'Vamp' Jimmy Choos, however amusing the sight would be); once the occasion arises, a stomach-turning dread can awaken from its slumber and climb higher into your mind, until there is no longer any part of yourself which has not be turned stone cold by the anxiety it lays in a trail inside your body. Rather miserable to think about, really, but what other way is there to describe it better? And, although I was holding a mere pair of alarmingly pretty-to-the-eye sparklers, nothing could have prevented my heart from racing wildly and driving erratically on a par with a Formula 1 driver - once it happens, what else can you do except save yourself?

For the past few years, I've hardly paid much attention to the big bonanza which has become familiar to the majority of us as popping-and-exploding Bonfire Night; the nearest experience I get to fireworks is watching the massive display aired worldwide on New Year's Eve, whilst my eyes flutter sleepily and I'm almost pushed off my seat by my brother leaning too closely beside me. A nice memory as I wake up lazily and stumble out of bed the following morning, but standing outside in the cheek-reddening cold willingly and gazing at the sky as explosives light up the night hardly stirs a hidden desire inside myself, let alone makes me want to buy fireworks or even sparklers.

Well, sparklers would be deemed a fail-safe option to comparison to highly-dangerous fireworks, would they? I maintained this way of thinking (alongside a level teaspoon of common sense, which is hardly as common as you would think) whilst deciding on getting two packets of long, celery stick-thin sparklers a few weeks ago, which suddenly placed me in a position to overcome my childhood fear of flames. I hardly know where the so-called fear made itself apparent, though I guess that catching a second-long glimpse of an occupied bed being set alight on the news as a young child didn't offer much reassurance.

As an often bold (well, in terms of eye-catching, though sometimes overly brash eye shadow shades) and wannabe-rebel teen, I felt strongly compelled to bite the bullet and face up to holding a sparkler, years after dropping one in a frantic panic and racing like a lightning bolt upstairs to my bedroom; compared to the even 'scarier' flies, a sparkler seemed like a piece of chocolate-coated cake. Albeit one my stomach angrily growled in hunger to eat.

And to my utter surprise, my eyes flowed the sight of the dazzling sparkler with a child-like amazement and, despite feeling slightly nervous when one was firstly placed in my night-black gloves, I quickly overcame my initial apprehension and began to enjoy swirling my name (I'm still not telling!) into the freezer-cold air. So, who would have believed that a tinge of sadness would tug at my heart when the final sparkler died out, its light steadily fading?

Maybe fear isn't as bad I used to believe after all - sure, there is nothing more terrifying or skin-raising than a terror tugging at your heartstrings, but sometimes it may be in the stars to learn more about yourself or, in my case, realizing that sparklers are not going to hurt me or provoke another act similar to the one I had as a young girl.

But what about flies and bugs? The same feelings still persist - I hardly want to reverse them!