I stole from a bunch of poor people

When I was little I got to visit my grandparents in Montana. I went there by myself, so the plane ride was an adventure. My mom bogged me down with two carry on backpacks full of felt colouring pages and candy. I wanted to fly every single day of my life.

Though flying by myself when I was young was a tad terrifying. I was around the age of nine, and I remember my mom telling me, “If your seat is beside a scary man ask to change seats. Actually if you end up beside any men ask to move, ok? Ok Skylar? If there’s a man, move away. Move away from men. Men move seats. Move….don’t sit by men, ok? Ask to sit alone, or by a nice old couple.”

I did end up sitting by some fat old man, but I was far too focused on my candy to pay any attention to him.

I remember I was supposed to get on a connecting flight. I have no idea what the hell my mom was thinking, putting an ADHD nine year old on a connecting flight.

I flawlessly missed my second plane. Some airport security guy found me before some pedophile or thief, and he asked “Where’s your mommy?”
Me: At home, I think
Cop: Your mommy is home? Did she leave you here?
I didn’t really understand exactly what he was asking. I only knew that she was not here, and, yes, I guess she did leave me here.
Me: Yes.
Cop: All by yourself?
Me: uh huh
The cop mumbled something into his transceiver
Cop: Do you know your mommy’s number?
Me: Duh *giggles*
Cop: Here, let’s go over to this phone and you call your mommy and let me talk to her
So we went over to one of the emergency phones and he let me dial my mom. I remember him sounding gruff and angry on the phone.
“Ma’am, I believe I have your child…yes, at the airport…well she is clearly not on a plane, ma’am….is that right?…My mistake then. Terribly sorry to bother you.”
He then leaned down
Cop: Were you supposed to be on a plane?
Me: I was already on a plane
Cop: Yes sweetie, but weren’t you supposed to be on another?
Me: I don’t know. Is my grammy here?
Cop: No, your grandma is another plane away

I started crying at this point
Me: DID I GET ON THE WRONG PLANE AM I GOING TO SEE MY GRAMMY DID GRAMMY GET LOST? AM I LOST? I’M LOOOOSSTTT
Cop: No, no, it’s ok, we’ll put you on your plane so you can see your grammy. It’s going to be alright. Do you have some snacks in your bag? Why don’t you eat some of your snacks?
Me: Another plane?
Cop: Yes, we’ll get you on another plane. Let me just go make arrangements.

As I was later informed by my mother, apparently I had someone designated to take me to the next plane and make sure I got on it, and I was told to meet him after I left the first plane, but I instead decided to run off past him and wander aimlessly for a few hours. They should have had someone escorting me the entire time. I was fucking nine.

After I managed to get on a different plane then the one I was supposed to be on, I was on my way to my grandparents. I sat by two kids around my age on that plane, and I remember them eating most of my candy. I was super unhappy.

When I got to Montana to see my grandma, the first thing she said to me was “You’re going to bible camp!”
I wasn’t entirely sure what bible camp entailed, but I loved camp, so needless to say I was very excited.

During the first day of camp they told us we were going to be working in a small store separating food. We were going to work in the back and box muffins and donuts and cupcakes and loaves of cinnamon bread. This sounded fantastic at the time, but now it just sounds like child labor.

We weren’t supposed to eat anything, but when they told us that I’m pretty sure it smacked into the side of my head and fell off, my head being shielded from those instructions by the huge grin on my face I had gained by the thought of all of the donuts, and all of my donuts.

Once we got to the store and they sent in us the back, they left us alone. They left a large sum of kids, alone, in the back of a bakery, to sort through a bunch of sweets. I mean, sure they were leaving a bunch of church kids to do it, but we’re still rabble-rousers.

I did help though. I would sort the muffins into a box, then eat a muffin. I would seperate sweet bread slices, then at sweet bread slices. They had some good fucking baked food. It was all a little hard though, only slightly. And it still all tasted good.

I was very disappointed after we were done helping in that bakery for the week. I’m pretty sure at the time it was the most exciting week of my life. I got the “kid in the candy store” scenario, only I was allowed to eat everything in it.
Well, I guess “allowed” is the wrong word.

I didn’t realize until I was older that all of those muffins and loaves of bread that didn’t sell the same day were, instead of being thrown out, given to the homeless and under privileged. Once I realized this, I just felt like a huge dick. But at least I had the happiest week of my life.

I hope a ninja doesn’t climb out of kittens mouth.

Hot damn, it’s been a while. I guess that what happens when all of the games I’ve been looking forward to are released in one month conjunctive to each either. I HAVE TO BEAT THEM ALL TO MOVE ON TO THE NEXT ONE.
You don’t understand, I have four games here that all want me to play them.
Four. 4. Vier. Shi. Quatre.
And those are all of the languages I am able to count to ten in. Don’t ask me to do anything else but count, because I most likely can’t.
On top of the games I was ravenously playing in an attempt to move on to the next one, (which, for the most part didn’t happen. I got too excited about 4/5th’s of the way through and moved to the next one) spring break had recently began which meant I GOT TO PLAY MAPLESTORY AGAIN. So that was a week. Pokemon took another week of my time up. Those two were the main culprits.

Damn, I remember when this post was going to be about pessimism. Maybe I should make it about my ADHD at this point. Nah, I’ll just continue to be-bop around subjects.

My cat, I mean my prodigy cat not the overweight one that I mentioned here, is sitting at the end of my bed staring at me intensely. I think he’s practicing the telekinesis I’m sure he has.

“WHY IS HE A PRODIGY CAT?” you ask yourself, while stroking the scruff on your chin. My cat is a prodigy because everything he does is too intelligent for kittens to do.

I saved him from the kitty holocaust at the tiny kitten age of just 4 weeks. Day one he made an number two on my floor once and a number one once or twice. That’s alright, he’s four weeks old. That is allowed kitten behavior. The next day he had successfully litter trained himself. No help from the other cats in my house, as one was outside and the other hated him. He just knew. Also, he has never had an accident on the floor since.

The day after that he learned to climb the ladder up to my bunk bed. “THAT’S NOT EVEN IMPRESSIVE!” you cry out “MY CAT CLIMBS LADDERS ALL THE TIME” (actually you might not be saying that, because you don’t necessarily own a cat and if you do have one it may be only my cats that do that. All of them climb ladders, so I’m not sure if it’s common kitty behavior)
“YES,” I exclaim, trying to quell your attacks on my poor kitten, “But mine learned it at only 4 weeks old and in one day!”
I was impressed.

After that he decided to learn a few of the commands my dogs know. Through watching them for about a week, and their reactions to my behavior, he learned to sit on command. I understand some cats can be taught to obey commands, but mine just decided to up and learn it on his own because why the fuck not.

Prodigy Cat is currently in the process of teaching himself to use the toilet. Our oldest cat does it, who also taught herself, and I can see Prodigy Cat trying to grasp the concept. He gets up there and sits, then just stands for a while. He must not understand the next step, BUT HE’LL GET THERE, DAMNIT.

One of my hypothesis (yes, I have a few. The cat is a fucking prodigy) is that he is confused as to what animal he actually is since he was taken away from his family of cats at such a young age, and he just mimics everything in the house. Sometimes I see him sitting on the floor in the most random places, and I swear to god he thinks he’s an end table. Most cats sit near things, like beside the refrigerator or near/in a box, or they sit on one of the 8 rugs we own, but he sits away from everything. Just BAM, smack dab in the middle of the floor. I have tripped over him so many times in the middle of the night. Fucker blends in.

My newest hypothesis is that he’s a ninja/assassin/ninja assassin infiltrating my home trying to get whatever information he needs before he disappears adorably in to the night one final time. I hope this one isn’t it because he’s really god damned adorable, and I want to see him learn more hilarious things.

IT’S OUT THERE I KNOW IT. I FEEL HIS EYEBALLS ON MY HEAD.

So I don’t look out my window when I’m using my computer at night. I’m scared to death someone will look back at me. Or I’ll see someone (or something) run past my window.
What if I was happily surfing the interwebs, minding my own business, then when I look up and THERE’S A FUCKING CREEP IN THE WINDOW!
WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING THERE? GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY HOUSE!! GET OUT OF HERE YOU CREEP I’M GOING TO SHOOT YOU WITH MY SHOTGUN, because I live in West Virginia and everyone owns at least one shotgun.

Except if there really was a man out there, I would really be like
HOLY SHIT I’M GOING TO GET RAPED WHERE’S MY DOG, BASEBALL BAT AND THE NEAREST DOOR WITH A LOCK ON IT!? At that point, I would enter the fetal position and not really move anywhere because I’m a pussy. My dog would take action though!

This fear stemmed from my grandmothers story of Peeping Tom I heard when I was younger. She didn’t really mean anything scary by it, she just told my older cousin not to change in front of windows because there might be peeping toms there. I didn’t really know what a peeping tom was or what it looked like, I only knew it was a guy named Tom who looked through windows. So with my psychotic mind I began thinking up the creepiest image ever.

When I was in her house that night I kept making up scenarios, and when I went to use the bathroom I looked over at the bathtub and thought “…Can Peeping Tom be in the bathtub?” Then I was afraid to go to the bathroom because what if Peeping Tom slowly rose out of the bathtub and stared at me with his creepy, very Chuckie-esque faace. It probably resembled Chuckie because I’m moderately certain that was the movie we watched at my friends horrifying slumber party, and this took place not too far later.

After about 5 minutes of staring at the bathtub like a deer trapped in headlights and not turning on the lights which led me to scaring myself even more, I ran out of there flailing my arms.

“NINA NINA CAN TOM BE IN THE BATHTUB?”
“Dear lord, what are you going on about?”
“TOM IS IN THE BATHROOM CAN HE BE IN THE TUB?”
“Tom who? Someone is in our house?”
“NO PEEPING CAN PEEPING TOM BE IN THE BATHROOM?”
“Peeping…”

I think this is about when it kicked in for my grandmother.

“No honey, that’s just an analogy. Peeping Tom isn’t in the bathtub”

Being about eight I obviously didn’t know what an analogy was, but that was good enough for me. I was once again able to use the bathroom. For awhile. Unless the toilet seat was up.

I don’t remember exactly what I used to think Peeping Tom looked like after he changed from Chuckie, I just remember it was enough to ingrain a fear of him into my subconscious.

Now when I’m sitting around casually on the computer, which is the only time my back is turned to the window, I sometimes think “Holy shit what if there’s a guy looking in my window right now“, but now I don’t want to look out the window because WHAT IF MY SUSPICIONS ARE CORRECT THEN I’M SCARRED FOR LIFE. So I tell myself “if there’s a guy looking through your window he’ll go away soon or try to get in, and if he tries to get in my dog probably weighs more than him anyways -I have a dog other than that dinky chihuahua, by the way. She’s really adorable and like 140 pounds of pure muscle- and then you will have time to get the baseball bat while he tries to get in and you’ll never have to look at him through that window” So I won’t look at the window.

Sometimes if I’m beyond paranoid that night for whatever reason I’ll leave and to go in the kitchen and open the door to the refrigerator and stare at the light and food until I feel better. Food always makes me feel better.

I really can’t live alone, I’m far too deranged.

Contrary to popular belief, I am not narcissistic. I’m just awesome.

I almost didn’t post this to day just for the sake of my overwhelming OCD that really isn’t that severe and only occurs during sporadic times of my life, but let’s look at what’s important.

I hate cameras, but whenever I see someone with an official camera, for the news or some shit, I always have a resounding urge to run in front of them naked and yelling. Or something of that nature. Not necessarily naked, that would just make us all uncomfortable.

Now, normally I avoid cameras at all cost as I’m self conscious, but not when those news and other important cameras, no sir! Quite frankly it doesn’t make any sense. No one but my friends see most of my pictures and that makes me uncomfortable, so I don’t know why I want to be seen by thousands via a television news broadcast. Actually, if there was a way to find out why I have that compulsion to jettison myself in front of those cameras on live television, I wouldn’t want to know. I’d probably keep myself up at night worrying about how paranoid I am.

And if it’s not live television, I’m even more annoyed by myself for wanting to streak by the cameras, because that means I ruined their shot and they have to take a new shot and edit more footage. Which makes me a dick.

I tried to do it once; fortunately I did not do it naked. I was strolling along with my mother as she was shopping- oh, a side note which may explain a few things about me, my mother had to keep me on a leash when I was little. More on that later. So we were shopping, and apparently the store had been robbed a few hours earlier so there were news reporters everywhere.

Being a 4 year old and lacking all of the self control I have currently, which really isn’t all that much, I decided to be on TV. When my mom dropped the leash, I began to climb up the shelves of food. God, I was such a fucking prodigy. Even at that age. I knew exactly how to get what I wanted.

As the cameras steadied on me, I arose triumphantly on the top shelf. My mom didn’t even notice until the people made an uproar.

Mom: SKYLAR NICOLE (my middle name, she only uses it when she’s furious. It’s one of the reasons I hate the name so much) YOU GET BACK DOWN HERE RIGHT THIS SECOND
Me: Nooooooo (I a said, in a singsong voice)
The cameras were on me, and my mom was not a fan. This was on the news. People would see, her, on the news. People would see her DELINQUENT CHILD, on the news. People, news, family, friends, publicity, embarrassment, reputations-
My mom started to climb the shelf.

I scrambled to stand, and looked around. The huge grin on my face quickly turned southward. My mom was going to get me. I didn’t really know what to do, so I waited. All eyes were on us, and three news cameras focused in on us. I could see the fury in my mothers eyes. She got up there, and nothing.

She didn’t really know what to do. She wasn’t going to spank me, or scream at me, she just stared at me. Unrelenting she stared, and I started to cry. Mom sighed and pulled me into her arms. “I need a ladder. I can’t carry my daughter down on my back.” One was supplied almost immediately. She made her way down, and was soon bombarded by questions.

“Why can’t you control your child?” “How could you let her climb up there?” “Weren’t you paying attention?”
My mom was very flustered, and left the store very quickly. The trip home was quiet, and I never took my eyes off the floor.

We got home, and my elder cousin had been staking out at the house for whatever reason I don’t recall right now, looked up from the television
“Angie!” He cried “You’re on TV!”
And there we were. My eyes lit up and I raced towards the TV
“LOOK MOMMY, JUST LIKE BLUES CLUES!” I shrieked.

We still have that news recorded on video somewhere, along with the time I tried desperately to be on an Oscar Mayer commercial. I was so adorable, what with my inability to spell
and huge, terrified eyes.

The cat won.

A cat challenged me informally to a duel once. At the vulnerable age of nine years old, I was laying on the floor watching TV. I believe it was Bill Nye, the science guy. I’ve always been a loser. It was always either Bill Nye or The Joy of Painting. Or Reading Rainbow. We only got PBS at my babysitters. I SHOULD BE SMARTER, DAMNIT. Bill, Ross, and that guy from Star Trek betrayed me.

Anyways, the babysitters cat, a sleek black ruffian about a year old, decided that he really didn’t like my attitude. He was fed up with me eating food and prancing around and generally being a human. He neared me, looking innocent enough. “Hey rasc-” DEATHSTRIKE

That little fucker grabbed my face and didn’t let go. He dug into my delicate little 9-year-old cheeks like so many chunks of salmons, using his front ones to anchor into my skull.

My babysitter, upon hearing my deranged screams, rushed onto the scene. She ripped the cat off my face and threw it outside, then hurried me into the bathroom and began to clean me up. Tears and blood were streaming down my face. Mostly blood.

“DON’T *SNIFF* HURT *SNIFF* THE-E-E-E KIIITTTYYYYYY” I cried.
She brushed my hair away from my bloody face. My mom arrived early from work for some reason just as my babysitter had begun to call her.

Mom: WHAT HAPPENED?
Babysitter: I WAS IN THE KITCHEN MAKING SUPPER AND I GUESS THE CAT GOT HER
Mom: OH MY GOD, SKYLAR ARE YOU OKAY?
Me: Mommy, am I going to have to go to the doctors?
Mom: OF COURSE YOU ARE! YOU’RE PROBABLY GOING TO NEED STITCHES.

I knew what stitches were. When my sisters dad had hurt himself, he had to get stitches. I did not want stitches.

Me: MOM JASON HAS STITCHES AND THEY LOOK LIKE LITTLE NAILS IN HIS ARMS AND THEY LOOK BAD AND THEY ARE REALLY GROSS AND WHAT IF MY FRIENDS WILL NOT PLAY WITH ME ANYMORE BECAUSE THEY DO NOT WANT TO GET STITCHES BECAUSE JASON HAD THEM AND NOW I HAVE THEM TOO.
Mom: Skylar, don’t be ridiculous. You have to get stitches. That scratch is really bad
Me: NO MOMMY IT’S NOT IT DIDN’T HURT AT ALL

I removed the washcloth I had been holding over my face and, lo and behold, it was bad. I could feel the warm blood trickle down my face, and it was coming quickly at that.

My mom rushed me into the car and buckled me into my seat. We got to the hospital, a 20 mile trip, in under 10 minutes. I was pretty impressed. So impressed I questioned the validity of that time estimate.

My mother Bulldozed her way to the front of the line past someone who looked like they may have just lost an eye and an old guy who was yelling at his feet, and plopped me on the counter.

Mom: MY DAUGHTER IS BLEEDING TO DEATH AND SHE NEEDS TO SEE A DOCTOR NOW.

I’m entirely unsure what happened in the time waiting for the doctor, because I can’t remember any of it. I don’t know if I was unconscious or just thinking about cats.

Once we got in there the doctor examined what was left of my face.

Doctor: Hmm…what did you do to make the cat hate you?
Me: NOTHING I WAS WATCHING SCIENCE.
Doctor: Haha, well, you’re going to have to get stitches
Me: YOU CAN’T JASON HAS STITCHES AND THEN NOT ANY OF MY FRIENDS WILL PLAY WITH ME

He must have thought I was psychotic.

Doctor: We’ll numb you and everything, it won’t even hurt. Now, lie down on the surgical table.

He administered the shot, and my mom pet my hair. “Now see,” she asked, “was that so bad?” I whimpered.

Doctor: Alright. Now is the fun part.
Me: Is this going to hurt?
Doctor: With that shot you shouldn’t feel anything but a tickle under your cheek

He was right, I didn’t feel anything. Well, until the last 3 stitches were put in and the numbing hadn’t reached up there. I started groan

Me: Mooooommmm it hurts so muuuucccchhh
Mom: You’re numb you can’t feel anything.
Me: Mom it huuurrrtttsssss
Mom: It’s all in your head. (leave it to my mom to try to convince me I’m wrong about being in pain)
Doctor: Actually, I don’t think we numbed her enough, so she may be feeling these stitches going in.
Me: Will you put more numb stuff in?
Doctor: We’re almost done
Me: But it hurts so much

That didn’t stop him though. No sir, he had a job to do, and that was making my face better. If he had to shove a needle in my completely responsive and very-much-sensitive skin, then damn it, he was going to. He finished up

Me: Mommy my face hurts
Mom: I know sweetie.
Doctor: I think she needs to get a tetanus shot though
Me: Is that going to hurt?
Mom: You know that new Pokemon game? Crystal? Let’s go pick that up right after the shot, because you were such a good girl. But, you can only get it if you don’t move during the shot.
Me: YAY! OKAY I PROMISE

I didn’t know what kind of commitment I was making. The tetanus shot was the worse thing I had been through all day. I remember wanting to trade in the tetanus shot and just get mauled by a crazy cat again.

Me: Can we go get Pokemon now?
Mom: Yes, we’ll go now
Me: Can we go to McDonald’s? I’m hungry
Mom: You can’t eat with your mouth stitched shut!

I tried to open my mouth, and realized she was right. That day I played Pokémon Crystal and ate lots of applesauce.

It was kind of like Little Red Riding Hood, but with no goodies and crippling fear instead.

My Grandma owns a huge farm in which no animals other than her multitude of cats actually live. My cousin and I, at the graceful and philosophical ages of 11 and 13, decided to go on a nature walk to better identify ourselves with the world.
That’s no lie, and it’s legitimately what we had in mind when going on the walk.

We thought somehow we were going to have adventures like in those soft hiking movies. We would find a baby bird who had broken its wing and nurture it back to health. We would find some box turtles who were stuck on their backs, struggling because of their tiny arms and unable to turn over, and we would turn them over.

I don’t really know what the hell was wrong with us. We walked about 4 miles into the woods, in no real direction except “up this hill, I know a cool spot where we can look and see things” I don’t know what things we were going to see, but they were going to be cool.

Once it had been an hour and no cool things were to be seen, and no babies were saved or turtles turned and it began to grow dark, my cousin started to freak out. It came out of nowhere. He just stopped, and his eyes grew wide, and he cried out “WE’RE LOST”

I’m not entirely sure how he decided this, because I knew where we were. We had been following the creek to the top of the hills, because it led directly down to the house. He just decided, in his terrified mind which became terrified for no apparent reason, that we were lost, and that he needed to scream and run aimlessly through the woods as fast as he could. Luckily, he was not terribly graceful and his legs were pretty short whereas mine were long, so it wasn’t terribly hard to keep up with him.

Me: DAKOTA, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
Dakota: WE’RE LOST AND I NEED TO FIND OUT HOW TO GET HOME AND I THINK IT’S OVER THIS WAY *proceeds to run uphill*
Me: ….we came from downhill
Dakota: ISN’T THIS DOWNHILL?
Me: Are you tired?
Dakota: I’M GETTING PRETTY TIRED
Me: Then it’s not downhill.

He then proceeded to run sporadically in different directions for 2 or 3 minutes, before changing direction randomly and continuing. Nothing I said would stop him from running. No matter how much I tried to convince him I knew where we were and what we needed to do to get back home. By the time he finally calmed down I could no longer see the creek, and we really were lost.

Being the paranoid psychopath that I was (am?) I started to think about murderers that hide in the woods of private property so the police can’t trace them. These thoughts, coupled with the fact we were legitimately lost, sent me on a terrified rampage. Now my cousin was trying to calm me down.

Dakota: There are no murderers here and even if there were they would only hide during night
Me: WHAT IF THEY KILLED SOMEONE ACCIDENTALLY LIKE DURING WORK ACCIDENTALLY AND NOW THEY’RE SCARED BECAUSE NO ONE WILL BELIEVE IT WAS AN ACCIDENT SO THEY’RE TRYING TO HIDE BECAUSE THEY LOVE THEIR FAMILY BUT THEY DO NOT LOVE WHAT THEY HAVE DONE.

It didn’t take me long to calm down. I just needed to realize that we had to get back home, or we really could end up being murdered by something legitimate, like bears or mountain lions or coyotes. (We live in West Virgina, so those were really a serious threat, because we have all of them here and none of them are very nice. Which leads me to wonder what the hell my mother was thinking allowing two preteens to be-bop around in the woods.)

Finally I pulled myself together and realized there was a simple solution, run downhill. We had been hiking and running uphill for 2 hours, and the house was downhill. Even if had somehow gotten to the other side of the hill, if we ran downhill we would get to the road and we could just walk along it to home. So we ran downhill.

Just before we got in sight of the house I saw the creek we had been following. While I stared at it and re-evaluated my 13 years of life choices, my cousin shrieked out in joy as the house entered view and bounded down faster than he was already running.

My cousin at the time had the legs like a bear, short and stubby. He was already running downhill very ungracefully at a decent speed, so when he started jumping down the hill and running as fast as he could, his legs finally said “Fuck you” and gave out. He went flying. He narrowly avoided trees and rocks, and I don’t know how, but he was perfectly fine. At the end of his impact he tucked and rolled and jumped right back up and started to run back downhill.

He got out of the woods first, and myself, not wanting to look like a try-hard, casually sauntered to the house. Well, as casually as you can saunter while still having the fear of murderers and bears eating at the back of your mind while awkwardly walking down a steep incline with your hands jammed into your pockets.

Come to think of it, I’m sure I looked pretty psychotic at that moment. Then again, when don’t I?

Make sure your kids understand fire drills.

I tried to prepare for a fire once when I was about six years old. My mom had been drilling me on escape plans that week in case a fire were to erupt. When the neighbor’s house across from ours burnt down, it really freaked her out. I decided that I needed a way to get all of my toys out of the house in case there was a fire.

I had a strawberry shaped toy box, so I thought it would be a good idea to cram all of my toys inside of it that I would want to escape from the fire with. After stuffing as many in it as I could I realized not all of them would fit. This was a problem. I looked around to try to figure out the best way to solve this problem. There was a window in my room.  I would pack the rest of the toys in a garbage bag and hurl it out the window.

I struggled with that garbage bag. If you have ever seen a six-year-old attempt heavy lifting I’m sure you’ve laughed for a long time. I was that six-year-old. I recruited the help of my neighbor who was two years older. He and I were able to hoist it to the ledge of my window, and he even helped me remove the screen! We had an odd conversation while we were moving the bag.

Delta: Why are we doing this?
Me: doing what?
Delta: Moving this bag
Me: Oh. to prepare for fires.
Delta: a fire is coming?
Me: I dunno, maybe. I have to make sure everything is okay if it does come.
Delta: Should I do that?
Me: Probably. You should probably make sure your puppy is okay too.
Delta: I will then. After I’m done helping you will you help me?
Me: uh-huh

I really don’t remember what we did with his puppy, I just remember his parents being very displeased with us.

Anyways, with my garbage bag on the window ledge and my toy box filled to the brim, I decided now was a good time to do a drill. I moved the toy box to the very edge of the top step then ran back into my room
“FIRRREEE DRIILLLLL” I yelled as I shoved my bag of toys out the window. I heard a crash and looked outside. “Success.” I muttered to myself when I saw it landed on the picnic table

I quickly ran to the top of the stairs and jumped on top of the toy box. I intended to ride on it to the bottom of the stairs. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. Physics meant nothing to me at the time, so this seemed like an excellent idea. I tried to push myself forward, but the toy box was too heavy to go anywhere. My mother ran in from the other room to see what was going on after she had heard the crash.

Mom: SKYLAR WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
Me: Fire drill, Mommy
And with that, I jerked the toy box forward and started my collision with the ground. My mom watched in horror at what she thought was the instance in which I died/became quadriplegic.

I’m not entirely sure how, but I ended up falling backwards down the steps instead of forwards. It may have been my body’s reaction to my possible death as I tumbled face first down the steps, so I might have threw myself backwards before the actual collision. I don’t remember. I was blacked out the entire time.

I must not have been unconscious for too long, because I woke up on the couch to my mom hectically speaking on the telephone. “Mommy….” I muttered. She came right away and started her exasperated speaking.

Mom: Are you okay? Where does it hurt? What the hell did you think you were doing?
Me: Just my head and back hurts…I was just trying to get away from the fire if it came
Mom: What fire?
Me: The fire and I had to save my toys because then they would be gone and I have to help Delta save his too I was trying to help because what about his puppy?
Mom: That’s okay. We’re going to take you to the hospital. They’re going to make sure you don’t have any head damage
Me: Mommy, I am really tired.
Mom: I’m sorry, but you can’t sleep.
Me: Oh.

That was my second trip to the Emergency Room. I ended up with only a bump on the head and a slight concussion. It amazes me how many times I’ve received trauma to the skull and gotten away fine.Though most people would say otherwise.