I'm an intense, hyperactive woman with an imagination in overdrive who loves her Husby, her two Wonder Wieners, and her emerging career as an author and photographer.

Tuesday, October 11


So, I'm at the video store getting Unleashed and Kingdom of Heaven (Orlando Bloom is the luckiest bastard alive), and the clerk asks me if I want to pay $1.50 extra for two bags of microwave popcorn, a 20 oz. soda, and a box of candy, OR, I can donate all the boodies to Teen Hope. "What's Teen Hope?," I ask. "A shelter for runaway teenagers here in Shoreline." Cool. We actually have our own teen shelter. Then, bam, it hits me, as if I were there, the full memory of running away from home when I was 10 years old in sixth grade. For those of you doing the math, I was ahead in school; I skipped second grade. Anyway, I gathered all of my money, about $15 bucks, climbed on my bed and crawled out my basement room window. I made it about two miles away, to the 7-11, bought bubblegum and pencils, and hiked backed home. As I was crawling back in my window, my parents found me, and smacked my butt but good, and grounded me for about two weeks. What struck me was how vivid the memory was, and that the most important thing for me to buy as a runaway was pencils. Why did it take me 25 more years to figure out I was meant to be a writer?

Yes, I did donate the goodies to Teen Hope.


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