Adventure #21: I Had a Younger Brother in Kindergarten, even if My Parents Didn’t Know

I have always had an active imagination and have enjoyed creating stories, even in Kindergarten, apparently. Recently, I remembered a conversation in Kindergarten when the French teacher’s aide sat me down to ask what I had drawn and written in my journal:

Me: I said, “I play games with Davíd and my little brother.”

Aide: Is David your older brother?

Me: His name is Davíd.

Aide: Oh, sorry. Is Davíd your older brother?

Me: Yes.

Aide: And you have a younger brother and have lots of fun with him?

Me: (Looking away) …Yes.

Aide: Babies can be so much fun, can’t they?

Me: …Yes.

Aide: How old is he?

Me: …A baby.

Aide: Is he eighteen months?

Me: …Yes.

Aide: Do his diapers stink?

Me: He doesn’t wear diapers, but I wish he did, then I could give him a bottle and change his diaper.

Aide: I think your mommy would change him.

Me: No, I would want to change him.

Aide: …Okay. What kind of games do you like to play with him?

Me: Stuffed animals. Hi-Ho Cheerio. Knockout. Mouse Trap.

Aide: You play all these with your younger brother?

Me: And with Davíd, sometimes.

Aide: …What’s your younger brother’s name?

Me:…Um…Robert.

This continued for a while. Eventually, there was an open house with our parents, and my teacher became so excited to see my parents. They had a conversation like this:

Teacher: Misses Inman, Jonathan’s mother! It’s so good to finally meet you. Where is your baby?

Mom: …My baby?

Sleep Well Little Friend wasn't a Cabbage Patch Kid, but he was similar to this

Teacher: Jonathan writes all the time about the fun he has with his little brother.

Mom: …He does?

Teacher: Yes, so I’m surprised to see him not with you tonight.

Mom: He’s never had a little brother.

Teacher: Really? Are you sure?

Mom: Uh, yeah!

Teacher: Well, of course you would be.

Mom: What kind of things does he do with this “little brother?”

Teacher: Well, they play games together.

Mom: (Laughing) That’s his doll!

Teacher: What?

Mom: He is talking about his doll. He has a little boy doll he’s named Sleep Well Little Friend. He must have been writing his doll as his little brother.

She was right. I always knew that the little boy in the pictures I was drawing was my doll, but I thought I would try to make others believe I had a younger brother, because I wanted one.

Adventure #19: Being Brave

I wrote this personal essay for my Creative Writing course last March (turned it in a year ago yesterday, actually). I did NOT want to write it, but it burned to be written (I even wrote an alternate essay about something else, but all my peers preferred this one, so I stuck with it). Then, I felt like I should post it on here but didn't want to. Now, a year has passed, and through it all, I have still had that impression to post it, so I finally am. So YOU BETTER READ IT!

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I never really thought I was different. Getting my blood drawn was routine, and a finger prick or a needle in my arm was never anything to be afraid of, though the kids in my fourth grade class often discussed horror stories of getting even a shot. But, knowing nothing else, children accept the circumstances they are given, as I did with getting my blood counts. I do not even remember if I knew for what reason my blood was periodically taken.

Davíd (brother, 12), Me (9), Ilene (sister, 22), and Ashley (niece, 19 months)

in February 1998 at Natural Bridge Wildlife Ranch near San Antonio, Texas

Eventually I would learn I was a patient of the lifelong disease Diamond Blackfan Anemia (named after the doctors who discovered it; not intentionally meant to sound dark)—lifelong because it is a genetic mutation and there is no cure. Only 600 to 700 people in the world have this disease, which will cause the bone marrow to produce no or little amounts of red blood cells. It has been known as a crib death, since the ultimate result of a waning red cell count is cardiac arrest and death. Patients are most commonly treated with blood transfusions and/or steroids, a miracle drug that stimulates the bone marrow to produce red cells, though how or why it does this is unknown. The nature of the disease is often unpredictable. On occasion, a patient’s anemia may go into remission that they may live healthily, free of transfusions and steroids.

Apparently, I was exceptional, though. When I returned to Santa Rosa Children’s Hospital in San Antonio for the first time in four years, having recently moved back to the San Antonio area, everyone knew me, even those who were new since I had last been there. They knew my story. I was one of those who lived, treatment free, on my own, with the blood disorder in remission. I had not been on steroids or had a blood transfusion for years and, thereby, was taller than a twelve year old girl also with Diamond Blackfan that was at Doctor Briton’s office the same day as me. This remission is what made me known and a commonly discussed case among the Children’s Cancer and Blood Disorders Center. After all, I had just spent three years in Saudi Arabia, in which we had needed special permission for me to live there, where emergency medical attention would be even more difficult to come by than it already was. Many within the hospital department and those who knew me when I was very little found me an inspiration and would reverently express that.

As I came to understand these things, I took pride in it. I commonly prided in my facts. That is what I was known for—the one who traveled the world and always knew the right answers in my classes. I was never gifted with many abilities, as athletics or other talents. I played piano, because I had had lessons. Besides that, I did not do very much but was known for knowing stuff. If I were to get any attention or to be known by anyone, I would have to rely on the facts about me and the facts I knew.

Also, I was not very good-looking, I had determined. What I saw in the mirror and in pictures was unimpressive, unlike some of the other boys my age. There were often girls crushing on them. I had never heard of any girls crushing on me or of any other validation that I may be good-looking, so I resorted to believing that I was ugly and would not grow to be handsome like my older brothers. The only physical definition I had was being tiny, fairly short and thin. I was born small but also received the stunted growth that came from steroid and blood transfusion treatments. I enjoyed being small and thought it was ideal, though I often perceived disfavor from others about my size, but still, they would know me for my tininess. I figured that it at least got me some attention.

***

With my seventh grade awards in May 2001, Age 12

Over three years later one Sunday, I sat in my family’s hot minivan passenger seat with the door open, waiting for my family to come out of the church building, so we could go home. Celia Blaine [names changed] came out with Paul Abrey. He carried her baby to his car, but she approached me. She was a tall woman, very thin. I had always thought she looked like a model and had somewhat of a crush on this married woman who was more than twice my age, but I often wished for her sweet attention, as well as other people’s attention or praise—a sign of value from them.

I knew I would not get very good attention from my appearance. The older I got the scrappier or homelier I looked. I perceived I needed to show off my thin frame by moving lightly and feathery, and that, in turn, led me to feel insignificant, though I was only trying to give that quality notice.

Now, I was doped on steroids, and my body had honked up in size. This body bore no comfort, while it faced the effects of the steroid: water retention, weight gain, change in hair and eye color, stunted growth, stretch marks, and many other side effects of the drug. At times I could not operate. For instance, gas would be trapped so hard inside me, my chest would feel like it would explode; or, my indigestion so great my insides felt like they would implode. My body did not feel like my own.

My eating tripled, because I always felt hungry. I never reached satiety. Before I understood this effect of the steroid, the only reason I would stop eating was because I could not fit another parcel of food inside of me.

My personality changed, too. I was irritable about every thing that was even slightly out of place. This increase in stress made sleeping difficult and gave me headaches and migraines.

I did not recognize myself and was uncomfortable with the drastic changes in my bodily function and appearance. Others did not recognize me either. Some people would not look at me anymore. Had they stopped seeing me? Few would talk to me previously, and now even fewer did. I became the smart kid who suddenly got FAT in a month. Some would unsympathetically tease me, particularly about my abnormally chubby cheeks. But, after all, junior high is not when a lot of people are the most understanding. Still, as a preteen often contemplating the point of anything in life, I found these interactions not the least bit encouraging.

As Celia approached me, I sat up, expecting her to give me a message for my mother, who, at the time, was the leader of the women’s organization for our church ward. I was used to being a messenger regarding her business.

She hugged me. “You are so brave,” she said quietly and left.

***

As I look back on that day with Celia, she amazes me. I remember her as a quiet person. It did not strike me at that age, but now as an adult, I sense irony in her message, in that she probably braved to hug me and to say those words.

November 2012, Age 24

Still, that was one of the kindest things that anyone did for me during that time. I did not feel brave, but it made me realize I could be, more than I was being. I did not feel as alone, and I felt like there were people watching out for me. I could brave through my condition, despite how I felt about myself or how I felt others saw me. If anything, I could brave through my condition for others.

Now, ten and a half years since I received steroid treatment, eleven years since I received a blood transfusion, I walk across a university campus to meet a friend to discuss a personal essay I wrote for one of my classes. I did not wish to write about my topic, but it burned within me to be written. It is something that has usually made my body involuntarily shake when I discuss it. I rarely bring it up, unless I feel it is appropriate, but I never shy away from it when it is brought up.

That essay led me to investigate my blood disorder further. As I have scrolled through websites and Facebook pages and groups, I find pictures of patients posted by loved ones. They are all seeking hope. Many of those pictured are no longer living. Some only lived to the age of four, others eighteen. It is not easy to face.

In the past, I investigated these sites but eventually banned myself from further viewing, because my body would shake and they would lead to tears from recognizing the result of fellow patients and, perhaps, from a silent fear of the same for myself.

There was even a discussion board of parents with an infected child in my area wishing to reach out to others that may be experiencing the same disease. Others responded, although they were not near these parents. I did not participate. I did not want to face this with them, though I could have met them in person, as was their hope. Was I being selfish? I could hardly face looking at pictures of other patients, let alone comfortably recount my own story. Perhaps, it would have been good to meet them, but I was not brave enough.

Now, as I see those who are struggling more than I have had to and those who have passed on, I know I have been given this time. I have been granted it—not that I am more deserving than others. I sometimes wonder why I am given this. But I have it. I must use it. It should not be spent moping about what I feel I lack or in dispute with or fear of others. This is life. Every breath is a gift. I have the opportunity to live. I am here.

I attend a university where people are kind to me. My peers know me for my kindness and my humor. They enjoy my personality and smile when they see me, as I smile back.

May 2011, Age 22

Often, I am told how good-looking I am. “Cute” is the most common word used. Anytime I perform a scene for my film acting class, my professor raves about how good I look on film.

And in this, I am grateful. Being considered good-looking can be especially beneficial in landing a job in my line of work as an actor, but beyond that and getting ready for my day, I hardly think about appearance, though I assume value in tidiness, as I have all my life. I find more to life than how I look, physically and in action.

I love people knowing my personality and find great reward in that. Rarely do I discuss facts about me, having felt like a museum exhibit in the past—something to see, learn about, and then move on from. Very few people know of my international birth or world travels, and even fewer know about my blood disorder. I desire them to be honest and unbiased with me and treat me as they would anyone else, without affected favor, respect, or disregard based on these facets of me. It is not that I hide these things about me. I am open to speak of them when appropriate. I prefer people to know the current operation of me and I them.

We all have our pasts, but life is now, and we do not know how long we will have it. Now is what we are given, even if it requires being brave. 

Adventure #18: Too Immature for Kindergarten

Once upon an eon ago, school officials thought I'd be too young to start Kindergarten, because my birthday was in mid-summer. They said I was plenty intelligent, even remarkably more intelligent than my older peers, but I just didn't seem as mature as my peers, having little interest in life skills activities, while making uninterpretable drawings and writing in all caps.

WELL, SHOOT! My mom already taught me how to hold scissors; I NEVER liked coloring, not even in the church nursery, and still, to this day, can't color in the lines; and I mostly picked up letter shapes from studying a computer keyboard. I could write in lower case, but the whole testing thing made me nervous, so I reverted to what I thought they might want, because it seemed more official. According to them, I'm probably smart enough for my college degree but still wouldn't be mature enough to join Kindergarten.

My mom still considered my wishes and asked if I wanted to go to Kindergarten. I said yes but didn't tell her it was only because I wanted to ride a school bus.

Adventure #15: eBay Selling My 5th Grade Crush

In my first year English class three years ago, we had to write a persuasive paper to use as a product description to sell an intrinsic item on eBay. I chose my 5th grade crush and read my paper aloud to the class for feedback. They loved it! My professor laughed throughout and commented that I had the "best.last.line.EVER!"...my item never sold, but the paper is fun to read:

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As a hopeless romantic, my life pretty much sucks, especially as a deep feeling, sissy college boy prone to attachment! Therefore, it would help me a lot if I could shake these romantic feelings I have been carrying for a girl from my fifth grade class. My method consists of ridding myself of a proxy—a broken heart shaped paper (two half hearts) with listings of my romantic feelings for her inside the heart. I do not have the money for therapy to settle this issue, since my collegiate institution requires I pay tuition. Hence, I have fallen into alternative ways to relieve myself of these feelings for a girl whom we shall call Annie.

To be honest, the first time I met Annie I thought she was a boy, because of her strong tomboy image. On the first day of school, my teacher requested the silence of some feminine giggling. I glanced in the direction to which she spoke to behold, what I thought to be, a group of three girls and a boy who was the cause of the girls’ laughter. I thought it rude for my teacher to refer to that boy as a girl. The next day, I saw that same boy enter and leave the girls’ restroom. I was shocked!  However, when I saw my teacher’s casual appearance as she witnessed the same event, I accepted that this boy was really a girl—Annie.

Annie was the first girl I felt strong romantic yearnings for. I had previously had a countless number of crushes on girls, often at the same time. Eventually, I developed strong emotions directed towards Annie. No other girl mattered to me, anymore. None were so precious and special as her. My life brightened just by seeing her everyday in class. Her sparkling blue eyes always calmed me and carried me away into mushy, frolicking fantasies. She was also very funny, and the goofy qualities of our personalities meshed so perfectly. We were a killer comic team when entertaining our classmates.

I still remember the sinking feeling I felt inside when another girl from our class brought up Annie’s boyfriend. I had no idea she had one, and Annie instantly turned red and shied away from the topic as she watched my surprised and hurt reaction. Gradually, I calmed myself, thinking, Annie may not be mine now, but someday we will have each other. Soon, my parents informed me that we were moving to a small town three hours away. When my teacher revealed this news to my class, Annie’s face shared the same expression mine had when I heard of her boyfriend.

The months following my family’s move were mostly spent in loneliness, daydreaming that someone’s house in the neighborhood would go up for sale and then Annie’s family would move in. I tried to escape these ideas by facing reality and recognizing that I probably will never see her again. However, that was too painful, so I maintained my imaginative thoughts. I longed for her uplifting companionship.

Since then, I have been able to gather more crushes, but none develop into the same rushing intensity as with Annie. None have compared to her. Whenever something comes close, my mind remembers and pictures her. I feel guilty for any feelings for anyone I try to explore, as though I am being unfaithful to her.

Currently, I am a student in Provo, Utah, at Brigham Young University—the marriage meat market capital of the world! My feelings for Annie serve no purpose in my life right now. They haunt me! I have no contact with her and have not even been able to find her via Facebook! Our relationship is, basically, hopeless. Besides, as I have considered her ultimate tomboy image, I have come to strongly believe that she very well may be a full-boar lesbian by now. Once again, these feelings have no use to me, but, perhaps, feeling this way for a lesbian-like person may be quite tantalizing for someone else.

I offer these feelings to anyone interested, whether it is because you have not felt such feelings for another, yet, and desire to do so or because you like to gain these same feelings for several people and play them all. I am open to any reason to house these stirrings elsewhere. I really do believe this method will help rid myself of these feelings for her. Your purposes with the sent document are completely up to you. You may even write the name of your ex-lover on them and use them for toilet paper. If you are adventurous, you can reconnect with your mother by sending her one half of the heart and then meeting up to complete it. If you are thrill crazy, you could try this with your mother-in-law.

I remind you that I am only selling the feelings for Annie. I have tried to make her sound vague to protect her identity, since it is not her that I am selling (she is not a slave, and I am not her trader).

Happy bidding!

Adventure #11: My art IS me

This post is about how well I know myself even if I don't know it. So, as the incredible and nearly toothless Snoop Dogg once said in a hot girl song:

"Let's take a journey."

It's been told to me before, and it was reiterated a few nights ago when I watched Never Been Kissed for the first time: "To write well, you have to write what you know." And, this applies to every form of art. For the most part, I do this with my creative projects, and for the most part, I never recognize I'm doing it until after the project is done. I don't know, exactly, if I can claim writing "well," but I sure do write about what I know.

"To write well, write what you know"

Let's start with my most recent project, which is what actually brought this junk to mind. For my creative writing class, I wrote a short story that I grabbed out of the air while we were given time in class to brainstorm quietly. Within two days, I knew the direction of the story, that a gentleman who wants a family discovers a strange creature in his plant shop and this creature fills his desire for a family. It took a few writing sessions, three of which I spent crying heavily (and I mean, BAWLING; there was no stopping the tears; they just kept coming and coming without effort, and I was heave breathing, feeling agony within), because I felt so emotionally connected to what the characters were going through. So, I wrote what I was feeling at the moment and tagged that the characters were doing it. I didn't quit feeling so emotionally overwhelmed until I wrote the characters out of that situation, and then I wrote how the characters(/I) felt in the calming period after a strong emotion (so, now if you ever read Twizzle, you'll know every emotion I felt (even the smiles) at the very moment I wrote it; that may be a nice (or torturous, if you're my mother) visual to play with as you read).

So, what does this mean? I wrote what I knew. And, what I presently know is loneliness. For me, that is what the story is about. This loneliness hasn't been a great secret to me, though I've tried to ignore it. It's mostly come up since I moved out of my sister's house last April and closer to my college campus, due to early classes and rehearsals that run late. It has seemed best to have a home to go to in the middle of the day than to be away from home for 14-16 hours everyday (my sister lived a forty minute drive from campus but is now moving near my parents, a two and a half hour drive from campus).

Perhaps, this is also why my baby hunger has increased a lot. If I can't have people readily to be with me, why not make people who will readily want to be with me? I'm used to creating things. Why not people? (I wouldn't exactly say that is especially a great idea, though)

This isn't to say that I don't have friends and don't talk to people. I appreciate those I have, but I've always lived with my family, where there has always been someone to talk openly with and with whom, I feel, I can receive an unbiased opinion about things or can get feedback that is not strongly judgmental or saving face to manipulate me. Now, I'm around other students who have their own agenda, when I've been used to having someone who will make time to talk to me, even if slightly inconvenient for them (gosh, I sound like such a little prince). There is a kind honesty (even if it's not pleasant to hear, it's necessary but done with kindness) among much of my family and I trust them.

So, wah wah! I don't have them right here. ANYWAY, this happens all the time when I write poems and songs. Sometimes, I have NO IDEA what I wrote means! Then, about 1-3 months later I look back over it and have an "ah-hah!" moment and realize I wrote exactly what I was feeling at the time I wrote it.

During my 20th year of life, I wrote a novel. It took me August to August (to figure it out and) to write it, and about 6 months later, I saw that I accidentally wrote a story that reflects that 20th year.

In my acting, I draw from myself and people and common behaviors I have observed or understand(/researched). When I'm doing crappy work, I'm not drawing from anything, because, for whatever reason, I forget to draw from inspiration or don't know (yet) what to use for inspiration. I am not "writing" what I know.



And lastly, I have been writing a bunch of silly sketches, some of which have been put on Youtube. The one that stands out in my mind is Einstein Home School College. I wrote a promo for it, and the lead in that has been kind enough to improv her way through two more videos of random interviews with the same spirit of this College I created. I have also written episodes of events that happen at this place. Basically, the gist is incompetent people acting like they know what they're doing. So, pretty much, I wrote about how I often feel. However, often when characters recognizes this cycle, then that is a drama. But, when they are clueless to their incompetence, then it is a comedy, as the scripts for this College try to reflect this latter pattern. Overall, since I feel I go through both of these patterns, and since drama and comedy are both part of life, I can say that I have experienced a whole life (Thanks, Mom; you did well, after all).

So, pretty much, I write what I know. And even if I have not experienced something firsthand, I write what I understand, and it still comes from a place within me, even if I don't readily recognize it. Then, my art is me.

How is your art you?

Adventure #8: Nothin' But Nettie

Story time! About a very special someone! (Not my "special someone," but someone I really love and admire)

My friend Jeannette and I met in a beginning acting class at BYU. We had one of those relationship (that I have often) when I would quietly talk and joke with her, but she ended up being the one that got caught talking. Sometimes she was reprimanded for distracting me from what was happening in class.

This semester, Jeannette took a break from school to nanny in Texas and has even blogged about her nannying experiences. I've missed her a lot and have been meaning to write this post for several months now. I dedicate it to her! Here's to Jeannette and our adventures!

In January 2010, we attended a BYU stage production of They Shoot Horses, Don't They? Afterward, we ate Teriyaki Stix for dinner. She was hesitant but ordered some bowl with fried rice. After two bites, she was sick of it, so I tasted it and found that it tasted like barf. DISGUSTING! So, we threw it away.

Anyway, it was at this meal that we decided we should take another class together and decided we'd take a Doctrine & Covenants (LDS scripture and church history) class. MISTAKE! We took it from a professor whose name we could never pronounce, spelled something like: Schaalje. It was at 10 in the morning. Jeannette only woke up early enough to come to one class meeting, and I kept being late, causing me to miss several quizzes and forget to make sure I signed the roll. Regardless of her attendance history, Jeannette scored higher than me on our first exam, which she also failed...there shan't be more comparison of our scores.

Pregnant Penelope and baby

Also, the other class members were fairly odd, it seems. They had a habit of staring at me. NO JOKE. For instance, one day (that I came late) I took a seat in the front right corner. After progression in the lesson, someone from the front left corner was commenting, so I turned to listen to her. She talked a long time, and I grew tired of looking that direction, so I turned to glance at the back left corner of the room and found about half of my classmates staring at me. Half of the stare-ers corrected themselves and turned away, uneasily, while the other half persisted staring. This was very uncomfortable for me, so I turned to the front of the room to face a blank white board...It was very awkward...There were other similar instances, but soon after our exam failure, Jeannette and I formally Withdrew from the class.

Among other fantastical happenings of that semester were randomly befriending Garrett, a Tuesday night security guard for BYU's fine arts center, and Jeannette's pregnant balloon poodle, Penelope; on a random night, I made the impromptu decision to join her at a BYU dance but was denied entrance, because I was wearing jeans, instead of slacks.

One last highlight of visiting Jeannette was last Fall semester. She had recently moved, so she gave me the numbers to her new address but didn't distinguish the direction of north/south/west/east. I found Mountain View Apartments, which was somewhat in a seeming vicinity of what she told me, so I called her, waking her.

"Hey, I'm at Mountain View Apartments. Is this where you're at? Which one is yours?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah, I think that's it," she replied. "I live across the street from there."

I looked across the street to find Wasatch Mental Health.

"I'm pretty sure you don't live across the street," I laughed, "Unless there's something you haven't told me...Is it alright for me to come over? How long are your visiting hours?...What is your real address?"

Eventually, I found my way over to her apartment building and approached the apartment that was hers. I rang the doorbell. The lights were off inside, and I waited. No one came. I knocked and rang the doorbell more to no answer. I called her, again.

"I'm here," I told her.

"'Kay. Come in."

I tried the door. "I can't. The door is locked."

"Um, it shouldn't be."

"Well, it is."

"Did you ring the doorbell?" she inquired.

"Yeah," I replied.

"I didn't hear it. I don't even see you out my window. Where are you?"

"I'm at the place you told me. I'm ringing the doorbell." I obnoxiously repeatedly pushed the doorbell. "It's ringing. I can hear it."

I heard the door to the apartment next to me open and looked up to see Jeannette standing in its doorway. She didn't say anything but shot me a sassy smile. I walked down and joined her in her apartment.

We played a game of Battle of the Sexes, which I won (Go Men!), and had a lot of fun. On my way home, the windows of my car were rolled down, and I had Madonna's "Give It 2 Me" blasting while I was singing, cruising down Center Street in Provo. I stopped at a light just in time to scream, "GIVE IT TO ME!" and to catch the attention of people on the sidewalk...

These are just a few of my memories with Jeannette, but whenever I am with her, we have so much fun! She is very much like Glozell from Youtube, if you are at all familiar with Glozell. Everything she does is so entertaining. She is someone I can always depend on for a good time and who I can trust will be respectful in personal conversation. I am excited for her to come back to Provo next month and look forward to great more fun with my friend!

Adventure #6: Keepin' It Real

Last Saturday, I had a callback for a play and had some auditions for some student films, so, naturally, I was pretty stressed that day, which can be exhausting, especially since I was already tired from lack of rest. In the evening, I walked to a car with two other boys and a girl in a parking garage underneath some apartments. I was the driver, so I headed to my designated location while the boy who was going to sit behind me asked, "What time is the movie?"

The boy on the other side of the car replied, "Seven-thirty."

The girl opened her door to the passenger seat and asked me a question regarding a friend. I fittingly replied and got in the car, placing the key into the ignition.

Before I could fasten my seat belt, our attentions were called out of the car, so we all exited. When the matter was settled, we headed back to loading the car. These kinds of distractions were expected, but my exhaustion had been creeping up on me. As we headed to the car, the boy behind me asked, again, "What time is the movie?"

I waited for someone to respond but grew impatient and turned to speak directly to him, answering, "Seven-thirty," maintaining composure, though in my mind, I irritatedly thought, "You just asked that, you idiot!"

The girl opened her door and asked me her same question regarding our friend. I expected this from her and just answered as I had before. I sat in my seat, but before I could insert the keys into the ignition, I heard a voice outside the car shout, "Cut!" It was then I remembered I was in a film......

I had forgotten and wasn't focused, hence my agitation at the repetition of the actually unscripted question regarding the movie. Consequently, I forgot to speak up so the boom could catch my reply, and I also directed my answer directly to the asker, who was in a different direction than the boom.

So, here's to keepin' it real and failing to keep a balance between reality and imagination.

Adventure #5: Check It!

So, funny story!

Once upon a day last month, I wrote a check for a large amount of money but told the receiver of the check to wait a week to take it to the bank, because I didn't know how much money was in my checking account and promised I would be sure there was enough money in it. They complied.

I was SOOOO EXCITED!!! I had written my first check! even though I've had a checking account for about a year....or something. I felt like a grown up! HOT HOT HOT! And plus, now I had the chance to go talk to the fun bank tellers! They're always so nice.

However, my sister told me I could transfer funds from my savings to my checking online, so I tried that but couldn't find my checking account.

OFF TO THE BANK!!!!!!

I explained to the teller (a chill, Hispanic young woman with a sweet, sassy attitude I could befriend) that I wanted to transfer funds into my checking account.  She looked it up but only found my savings.

"Are you sure you have a checking?" she asked.

"Um, yeah," I sassed. "I opened one a long time ago. I've already written a check, so I better have one."

"Nuh-uh, really?" she said.

"Yeah, I have a checkbook."

"Are the checks in your name?"

"Yeppers. It's in my car. Do you want me to go get it?"

"Yeah, let's take a look."

I flopped away and brought in the book full of checks with my name and address on them. She searched again and still couldn't find a checking account.

"So, I've been wandering around with checks in my name but with no account?" I confirmed.

"It looks like it," she replied.

"Nice!"

Finally, the problem was solved when one of the bank managers helped me open a checking....again! Apparently, whoever I originally talked to ordered the checks but forgot to set up the account.

So, the moral of the story today, children, is that you don't need a checking account to write and own checks in your name.

Adventure #1: Dumbing Down for the World

When I was in grade school, as soon as I knew the answer to a question, I excitedly raised my hand to share what I had to say. As I came closer to junior high age, this trait was seen as an irritant to some of my peers, who mocked and labeled me as an arrogant know-it-all, especially when I was nearly the only interactive student in the class that day. Being a sensitive individual, I started withholding my ideas, but when the new school year started, I forgot my previous problem and returned to my old habits of enthusiastically answering every question.

As I got even older, others would mention me hogging classroom attention. By this time, I was more aware of the welfare of those around me and feared I may be impeding on others’ opportunity to think and learn, so I returned to keeping my peace. Now, I rarely, if ever, add to the classroom conversation out of laziness and habit.

Further, as I’ve grown and become more socially apt and open with people and understanding them, I find myself asking questions I already figured the answer to, just to help smooth and continue a social interaction. Also, as I’ve tried to explain some intriguing concepts that, to me, are simple and easy to understand, some people get confused and tell me I’m a very deep person. To me, things are never “deep;” they just are what they are and should not be shied away from. As I’ve considered the phenomenon of “depth,” I find that even water is not necessarily deep unless it is over your head. When I feel myself delving into discussing a "deep" or complicated matter and if my audience is one whom I'd consider possibly unable to really comprehend it or if I'm not in the mood for technical explanations, especially if it may lead to confusion, I say, "I'm sure there's more to it than that," or something similar (but I also say this when I'm keeping a secret; somewhat ironic, eh), even if I know what the "more" is.

Most recently, some of my professors, in describing some assignments, ask us to write as if we are writing to a group of people who have twenty more IQ points than us. When I have written in this manner, some of my peers or professors who have read my drafts basically ask me to dumb down my papers, even though I’ve written in a manner that I consider would be comprehendible by someone with an IQ of 170. Regardless, these classroom editors do not understand what I am talking about. However, other peers have read the same paper and admire it.