Both parents, (but especially my father – the renowned Chemist B.B. Harris and to slightly lesser extent the late culinary cuisine queen Harmit Harms Kuritsky - the gal whose troth he pledged while holding some bubbling sinister looking flask in hand on their first guinea pig type date) encouraged incurred genetic yen, that burned from without the burnished buns off of this son.

No matter a bit tentative to experiment willy-nilly (wonka like) with rather explosive materiel, I received truckloads of ammunition (in tandem with benevolent benediction) to foster dare devil and derelict pyromaniac precocity. Those formative forays assaying, assessing and carefully calibrating this, that or the other liquid or powdery substance found me meticulously measuring and weighing the substances using kitchen midden malodorous kid gloves.

Frequent disappointment arose from yours truly as well as momma and papa when the net result (of these early attempts to blend powders and/or liquids) merely fizzled, and self extinguished into near inaudible poof. Continual daily practice eventually bore successful fruit in the form of near perfect results. Success in hotly contested field sans Pyrotechnics requires a striking resemblance to any other vocation. One must be able, eager, ready and willing to maintain that burning passion no matter any unforeseen setbacks or heat from an objectionable source.

I do sheepishly admit to (ahem) you that on occasion the outcome went awry. Nonetheless, they prided their potential fire branded wizard in the making with kudos and praise with DYNAMITE. Practice from indiscriminately creating unpredictable concoctions, these lethally marshaled nonchalant opportunities provided random results though usually very wimpy. As proof positive and proud testimony, they proudly pointed upward kitchen ceiling.

There such handiworks practically covered the entire ceiling with variegated splotches. Quite accurate to assume that father and mother coached, goaded, and nurtured exploratory ambitions.

My name is Yolanda Violet Koprinski Martín. I was born on the first Monday of December of the year that I was born in a room in a house that was dark. A little after that, my father built a flying machine and flew into a bus on the highway leading out of the city. My mother cried for five years until we walked around up to our ankles in tears and I couldn’t take it anymore. On the eve of the anniversary of my birth I left and married a short man with a large beard. I called him Bobo, but his name was Hugo. Hugo ran away with a woman who taught him yoyo tricks behind the public toilets in the square every Saturday. I gave birth to his baby the week after. He was little and red and had big ears. I pinched his ears and kissed him. Then he shrivelled up and his ears grew bigger and bigger until they sucked all the oxygen from the rest of his body and he could no longer breathe and he died.

I began work as a lollipop lady, which brought me immense joy. I was fired because I turned up painted blue on one occasion and a mother complained. The headmaster was so disappointed. His eyes drooped. I retired to a little room in my house that was so, so dark.

My uncle Roger came to visit. He told me he was going to Neptune and asked me if I wanted to come. I laughed and I shook my head and smiled over my Maltese lacework. Then I waved him off. Neptune is such a long way. Two days later I died. It was the first Tuesday of March of the year that I died. That is the story of my life, haha.