How I learned to hate the firecracker.

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A few days ago while walking to the parish church, a firecracker exploded barely an inch from my sister’s foot. She screamed and my left ear was ringing from the explosion. Had she stepped just a little bit more, it would have injured her.

We looked around and saw a group of kids a good distance away, standing under the awning of a sari-sari store in front of the church. They shouted their sorry but I was too pissed off to care. Nobody had the initiative to even shout a warning to passers-by.

All of this illustrates why I never liked New Year’s Day. Well, let me qualify that: I’ve never liked the three hours before the clock strikes 12 to usher in New Year’s Day. Although the incident above happened a day or two before January 1, we all know how it is when the new year comes marching around.

Everybody decides to turn the streets into a war zone.

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Amazingly, thanks perhaps to the wonders of global warming, it rained during the moments before the clock struck 12. I can’t even remember the last time it rained on a New Year’s Day. And because of this, the firecracker casualty report casualty report was at an all-time low.

Why people persist to risk their limbs (or the limbs of others) playing with firecrackers, I probably will never understand. Can’t we just stick to watching pretty fireworks and druken debauchery?

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