How did I meet him? His house was on fire, of course. But it wasn’t a major fire or anything, I managed to put it out on my own without needing to contact the department. I was visiting, um, someone’s apartment that day and that um-someone wasn’t home (the bastard, I already said I was coming) so I drew ugly faces on the door with the permanent marker I carry with me for these special occasions and left.

On the way to the elevator I smelt the familiar scent of burning plastic coming from behind a door and being a conscientious firefighter I knocked on the door, just to make sure that everything was alright. There wasn’t any response, so I took out a hairpin and my Swiss Army Knife and picked the door lock. Good thing this is an anonymous blog.

Anyway. When I opened the door ( my record is two seconds flat) the burning chemical smell got pretty bad, so I had to cover my face with a couple of layers of cloth – and there seriously was a lot of cloth in that apartment. Quickly scanning the apartment I found a pile of plastic things smoldering on the table which looked somewhat like a work area. The soldering gun had been left plugged and had basically set fire to the entire surface of the table. I quickly piled as much of the very flammable cloth out of the apartment and set out to look for a proper fire extinguisher.

There wasn’t one on the floor corridor ( I’m pretty sure that’s a violation of a building code). Then I remembered that my um-friend’s house had a good extinguisher – one of my extras. Giving my friends quality fire extinguishers is one of my endearing qualities. I returned to that apartment. That was when I realized I had left my things at the cosplayer’s place ( actually, I thought he was a tailor or something at that time ) so I didn’t have my Swiss Army Knife with me.  Whatever. I broke the door down. Having excellent body strength helps sometimes. The easiest way to break open a door is to give it a few solid kicks where the door lock is ( don’t kick on the lock, retard. Unless you want a broken foot. ). The door gave way after three solid kicks. Flimsy, that. Done with the door, I went inside, picked up the fire extinguisher and ran off. Going back inside I saw that the fire had spread a little to a side table. But I used the extinguisher and put everything out.

Since it was proper procedure I alerted the station and made a police report – neglecting to mention the lock picking, of course. And the breaking and entering. I just said that Norman forgot to lock his door. Made no excuses for breaking down my um-friend’s door though. That was heroism after all. Norman came back home to what must have been, to say the least, a shocking vista of police and fire inspectors swarming all over his Kurosaki Ichigo costumes. Lucky that his expensive figurines weren’t trodden upon.

He was pretty grateful to me for saving those babies so he treated me to a great meal at this place I really ought to write about sometime. I also told him to pay for a new door to my um-friend’s house, which he did. He’s a pretty nice guy. I did tell him that I’d like to blog about this incident, and he said “Sure, use my real name too. It’s good publicity.” So make sure to check out his website, folks.

Of course, as you might have noticed by now, that little boy was me. I am a firefighter by profession, and loving every day of it. I skipped out on college to join up, and I guess my older brothers and sisters (I have nine older and three younger) gave me a bit of flak on that, but they can stuff themselves, with all due respect. I was a junior firefighter at school, you see, so it was a natural progression for me.

But no, I haven’t become Elizabeth Taylor. Not yet.

Oh. My dad has (had) seven wives. Quite the prolific old man. He’s more than seventy years old now. I’m one of his last kids. But then again, I was adopted so that hardly matters. I think my mother was his brother’s wife’s cousin or some junk like that. The youngest was born four years after me, so she’s a seventeen year old heartbreaker now. The oldest is like, fifty or something. I have a couple of nephews and nieces who are older than I am. It’s nuts. But dad’s a good guy. Family gatherings can be a huge pain though.

My dad’s current wife is a doctor. An anesthesiologist, which is a bitch to spell. If I start this blog, she’ll start hers. That’s why I’m doing this. And one of my siblings (with whom I haven’t really spoken to in something like a year now) was sweet enough to come over and ask me to do it. So I will.

Off duty till tomorrow. I don’t think I’ll have time for long updates while I’m on duty. But when I am off I will try to write. Today’s drills were pretty exhausting. Had to to a load of hauling. I’ll need to keep up with strength training, but it’s worrying. I stay away from most proteins because, hell, I have a six pack and biceps to kill for, but I don’t want all that. Maybe some muscle definition, sure, but I don’t want to look like Mr Universe at all.

Putting out fires is pretty fun. Almost as fun as starting them. Hopefully my colleagues don’t read this, because it’s probably not good to sound like an anarchist when I’m already ninety percent off the normal scale. But really, they know all this already. They’re all awesome guys and girls out at the station. A couple of them know nearly everything there is to know about me. My older brothers and sisters always wondered why I kept going to the station even though it was just a little below half an hour’s drive away from home. Good thing I have so many older siblings to bum some rides from. D especially was great for anything. More like my parent than dad ever was.

I don’t know anyone I can call my mother. Dad’s wives never lasted more than five years. He usually picked up a lady, married her after half a year, went through a year or two of marital bliss, and spent the rest of the time testing out how much she could take before she got a divorce, ran off with someone else, or died. I’ve only seen one death, actually. I think she was the second or third who died. Though I hope this one lasts. She’s so nice to me. She tries hard to be nice to everybody. Even D, who can be a huge ass sometimes. But who knows, maybe she’s hiding her secret bitch. In a year or two dad will tease it all out. He always does.

Ugh. The fire alarm is ringing. I’m off duty, but every time  I hear that I freeze up. I’ll count time.

Less than two minutes. Not too shabby. It’s about three p.m. now. Good thing it’s not rush hour. This round should probably turn out decent. I wonder who’s out there now.

There are so many conundrums to ponder as a firefighter. I want to stay safe, but I want to save lives. To save lives I must endanger myself. But if I don’t endanger myself, I don’t stay safe. It’s not all about pointing a hose and turning a knob on a fire hydrant. There’s so much certification involved, and it’s definitely no lesser than going to college. Examination wise, there are written, oral, physical, psychological and medical exams to take before you get the all clear. I used to train my lung capacity by going running in the mountain ranges. The low oxygen levels up in the mountains sure make things trippy when you’re gasping after fifteen or so fifty yard sprints. I’m lucky I didn’t get eaten by a mountain lion. But then again, D was always there, so I suppose I was pretty safe. But then again, D’s a huge pansy so I don’t know.

Being a paramedic is pretty useful. I did all that studying in high school and got the certification a year after I graduated. J (that’s my sixth oldest brother) says I’m wasting my brains on this job, but I like it. I’ve trained nearly my entire life, as short as it is, to be a firefighter, and nobody’s stopping me from this. It’s exhausting, yeah, but so worth it. Try saving a puppy from a burning wreck of a house. Try saving a baby. You’ll understand.