I didn't always love spicy food. I grew up liking my stuff as bland as possible. I'd eat hot dogs without condiments and absolutely hated whenever there were toppings on my pizza, unless they were mushrooms.
My father, on the other hand, was a hot pepper lover, and one day he brought home some green little devils that even made him sweat. I joked with my mother about eating them and she warned me not to, crafting up some tale about a kid who went into a coma for three days after eating a pepper.
Me, wanting to get out of going to school for the next three days, thought it'd be a great idea to grab one of the peppers, strut into the living room where a bunch of my family members were probably arguing about the best filo dough to make spinach pies, and announce, "see you all on Saturday!" I took one, two bites of the pepper and swallowed it down...then proceeded to run around the house swallowing milk and chewing bread and dousing my tongue with cold water.