Cinderella, Cinderella.

When I was twelve years old, I would spend hours building model cars. Audi TTi, 1968 Road Runner, Union Jack Mini, 73 El Camino. I would sit at my kitchen table with a paper plate, plastic framing and a super glue stick. It would take me about 2 hours per car. I made sure to use a nail clipper to remove any plastic burrs. I would line up the chrome grille perfectly, make sure the tires were on the wheel bases evenly, line up the passenger seat with the driver's side seat. Adjust the goddamn mirrors. Then, once they were completely built, I would play with them for about 20 minutes. Epic car crashes the Pineda Causeway. A daring broad-daylight robbery of the Wachovia on A1A. The cars remained unpainted except for the pre-painted chrome and black rubber tires. iPod white, dead fish belly, skeletal haunting ghastly specters freewheeling straight to Hell. Once I was done playing with them, I would set them on fire. I would strike three matches and place them in the trunk, make a pool of hairspray on the floor of the back seat and light it, hold a click lighter to the hood and expose the engine underneath, melt the windshield onto the dashboard. My left nostril is almost completely closed up. I could swear I must've broken my nose somehow along the way. More than likely though, the mix of butane and melting plastic snaked its way up the left side of my face, distorting my entire nose up and to the left.

I can't explain how good it felt watching each of those cars erupt into black cloudy days and hear the headlights do their best Rice Crispies impersonation.