As a child I was always nostalgic. I’m not sure why, but anything I did I would think about how in fifteen or twenty years I would look back on an exact moment in time and love or hate every second of it. Why on Earth would I need to remember a time when I was unloading the dishwasher quickly and my mom said, “watch out, sometimes the forks will stab you.” or why would I remember my sister throwing a fit for thirty minutes because I ate the last purple Popsicle (well…) or lighting my cousin’s leg on fire with hand sanitizer. These memories are seemingly useless to others; just random happenings renting my mind. Everyone has stories that they share, or don’t. We all have a story that can be applied to any situation and then those classified stories that can only be told to your small group of close, personal friends. We all have that watered down version of something crazy we tell mom and dad, and then ten years later retell it at Thanksgiving dinner, while your mom in horror utters, “That’s not what you told me!” Our stories make us who we are and what we are.
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