Replacing Headbands With Colored Hair

Rocks in the Hospital

The one thing I will never understand is how people know where to start an autobiography. Sure, I could just simply state the day I was born, and tell you what my parents have told me about my birth. The only problem with that is they aren't my own words. I don't remember that I came out sometime before noon, I don't remember that I was born with a big head, I don't remember that the epidural didn't work on my mom because I was a stupid baby that tried to come out forehead first. Sure, I remember that now. Only because my mom keeps sure to remind me every once in a while. Then again, I should just stick to tradition, shouldn't I?

Fuck That.

I never was one to stick with the crowd. My phase of long socks with messy hair and tutus should prove that.

Might as well start this now. You guys can probably guess what my attitude is by now. More of a "I don't care what you guys think about me" kind of attitude.

I was born December 15th, 1998. Anyone else in December? Or got the same date? Maybe same year? So, yes that means I'm seventeen as of right now. Just in case people read this in the future, this chapter was written on May 8th 2016. Yeah, this is what I'm doing with my mother's day. Right now, I have five siblings. My Older brother Brent, he's the oldest at age 30. Then the rest in order goes my oldest sister Lisa 27. My next oldest sister Dee 24. Then Sam is right above me 19. Then me 17. Then my younger sister Maddie 12. But this year we're all turning an age older except for Brent and Sam. Their birthday has already past.

I guess the first actual important memory I have is when I was around the age of three. It was a sunny morning. I had just woken up. I was wearing my Barney nightgown and I heard my sisters Dee and Sam playing outside. Me being the restless kid I am, decide to join them. I don't remember much of what I had said to them. For all I know I haven't said anything at all. I squat on the ground and play with some chalk. Sam and Dee were playing with this kid who lives right across the street. Here's the catch, we couldn't go to each others house, so they were sitting at the edge of the driveway throwing sticks. I look up because they are arguing about not throwing rocks. This kid doesn't listen and he throws a pretty decent size rock anyways. Let me be the first to say...this kids aim...was horrible. Before I have anytime to react to anything I'm laying on the ground screaming. Pain pulsing through my throbbing head. My brother who is 15 at the time brings me inside the house and lays me on the couch. He calls my mom whom is at work. My mom hated when we would call her at work. She still does. Her rule was to not call her unless someone is dying. I can hear my mom's muffled voice through the phone. In the most serious, quiet tone, my brother simply breathes out, "Mom." And then he continues to explain what happened. My mom's boss had to drive her home from work, and take us to the hospital. The waiting room, almost two hours had past. Seeming more like an eternity. My child eyes staring down the stupid doctor toys they have. My head had stopped bleeding, making my mom's worry skyrocket. After another thousand years, they finally call my name. I'm taken into the back to get six stitches onto my head. I stare down at my elmo shoes while they close the whole that's in my head.

For a couple months, my mom and dad kept the rock that had a little bit of skin and hair on it.