My mother dropped me off at school for my first day of Kindergarten. She held my hand while walking with me to class. I was wearing my brand new backpack while confidently carrying my favorite He-Man, Defender of the Universe, lunch box.

I had been crying all morning, but momentarily mustered enough courage and strength to get me through the front door. The room was crowded with parents sharing stories while standing by the chalkboard. The kids sat silently staring back at their mother or father hoping to be saved.

I sat down on the carpet beside a kid who wore a sharp three-piece suit and smelled of spaghetti. He suffered from a delusional fallacy where he was raised by a wild herd of wolves. When asked questions this classmate of mine would howl, growl and yowl his answers.

I didn’t care much about kindergarten except of course for the finger painting. My mother was once telephoned by the principal because I was “too creative” with my art. I guess I was experimenting with abstracts and decided it best to splash paint upon the canvas… ceiling, walls and floor.

I love hats but they leave me headaches. Quite the quandary.

Sarah and a late night, last minute adventure through the quiet corridors of Memorial Hall. Stealing scenes from cinema, sneaking up back alley fire escapes to the roof of the auditorium. I could almost find religion from the top of that building. I swear I saw faith figuring over the hills horizon. But everything changed when we climbed back down that ladder. Something happened along the walk home.

Sitting with a few friends outside my apartment, alongside the pool, during the final weeks of summer before our senior year of college. One could consider these days to mark the last moments of idealism before the onset of realism. After this year, schedules would no longer acknowledge a standard seven-day week, as the “career” will now limit extra curricular activities to a short weekend, which would also include preliminary preparations before work on Monday.

I had grown out my beard, refusing to shave because a lack of enthusiasm and extreme laziness. The seasonal weather was in an early phase of change as a soft breeze was settling Santa Ana. We were drinking while lounging in the chaise chairs. A couple girls we met earlier in the week were swimming in the pool. It was our simple utopia.

My mother had told me to be home before dusk, and of course, I was still stubbornly playing Nintendo with Aaron, attempting to advance past the next level. She called, concerned that I had not left yet. And after one final fight to find Princess Zelda and the Triforce of Wisdom I hopped on my bicycle and thus, began my journey home.

I was happy, singing the theme from the video game while adventurously cutting through campus. A group of guys were playing basketball on the schoolyard court, hoping to get one last match before complete darkness. But it was already getting difficult to see… CRASH! I was instantly knocked off my bike and fell hard onto the blacktop.

I had no idea what hit me… My mouth was bleeding. I was dizzy, still trying to figure out what had just happened.

“Are you alright?” someone shouted from across the playground.

“Yeah”, I responded, realizing I had just rode my bike straight into a metal tetherball pole.

Disoriented, I walked my bike back home with a bent front wheel and broken handlebars. My right front tooth is still set back a little because of this.

Every room had dim lights, air-condition appropriately adjusted to the coldest setting and ceiling fans always spinning. The house was painted and papered with themes of dark forest greens and deep navy blues. His parents were never home and his older brother, who was supposed to be watching us, didn’t care so much as to what we were doing. We spent our summer swimming in the pool, using their backyard water hose as a lubricant to enable us the slip on their broken slide. We played strip poker with some girls from school after allowing them to triple up on layers of clothing. And then, I was properly introduced to Catherine Wheel, Charlatans UK and The Psychedelic Furs.

On the handball court at a neighborhood school they painted directions for solving a problem:
1. Talk it over.
2. Take turns/share.
3. Ignore it.
4. Walk away.
5. Say you are sorry.
6. Go for help.

Sounds simple enough. I feel as though these steps may also be beneficial for relationships.