This portion of my assignment will be a collection of stories my parents, family, or friends have told me about myself. They also might just be funny memories that I have.
I have been playing softball for over thirteen years now. First of all, that’s really weird for me to say, that I’ve done something for thirteen years of my eighteen-year-old life. I started playing when I was five. Like any other toddler, I had a problem peeing my pants. However, I had a MAJOR problem peeing my pants. I always held it as long as possible. Other kids I played with would run to the bathroom in between innings, but not me. I never left the field until the game was over. My parents tell me they can’t count how many times I would be standing on third base and I would just pee my pants, right then and there. It happened so often that it was laughable and not embarrassing for them. I ended up peeing my pants until I was twelve. Gross, I know.
Another thing that is cliché that I did was wake up in the middle of the night and go sleep in my parents’ room or my oldest sister’s room. I would lie down and put my feet in their backs. Apparently, another thing I would do when I woke up in the middle of the night, I would go into my parents’ room and stand over my dad and watch him sleep. I don’t know why, but I was a creep. He would wake up and jump, because I would scare him and I would say, “Are you okay?” Why was I so scary?
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Growing up, I was the closest thing to a brother that my brother had. I always played football with him and every other sport. I was playing football with him one day at the playground, after everyone had left the park except for the adults that were cleaning up the concession stand. A boy came up to my brother and me and asked if he could play, too. Of course, we let him, but then he told me that I couldn’t play because I was a girl and I sucked. So obviously, being the tomboy that I was, I punched up. He shoved me back and we ended up fighting. This was the one and only fight I had ever been in, and I beat him up.
When I was six-years-old, it was the beginning of first grade. It was time for recess. I went outside to play, with all of the friends I just made. It wasn’t a known fact to me at the time that asphalt was hot, when the sun had hit it for a long period of time. Being the weird kid that I was, I laid down on the asphalt. Apparently, I didn’t know how to check temperature, because the backs of my legs were burning and I wasn’t caring. I developed blisters, on my legs, because I was lying on the hot asphalt: DUMB.
Going to weddings and any other time-consuming ceremony was always something any kid would dread, especially me. I don’t remember any of the story that I’m about to tell you, but my cousin, Kelly, sure does remember the whole thing. Our cousin Michelle (the oldest of our cousins) was getting married. She had this nice, fancy wedding, like she had dreamed of. The bride’s maids were beautiful, the groomsmen were respectful, and she looked absolutely stunning. It was the exact wedding that she wanted, all down to the bagpipe player. Apparently, I couldn’t stand the bagpipe player. I repeatedly asked him to cease from playing, even in the middle of the ceremony. I was not nice about it and I screamed about multiple times.