I have a story. My mother has hinted several times that she wants to hear it. She doesn’t say it exactly like that “let me hear the story…” but when she makes certain comments, I can tell she wants me to write it all down. Hell. Once upon a time. I wanted to write it all down. I wanted to put into words every moment, ever kiss, ever tear, every drink, every life lesson, all of it. When it was all still fresh I couldn’t see telling one story without telling the funny moment that came right before it, leading up to it. It’s not just my mother who wants it told though; I think part of me still does. And I think the people involved would smile in a way of reliving it through my point of view.
Six years ago, I joined a group that I never could have realized would become as elite as it is. I became one of those kids who studies abroad. Not in college, no. Well I did that too. But firstly in high school. I filled out stacks of forms, visited doctors, got recommendations and was picked to go abroad. I was desperate to be picked so I told them I could go anywhere they wanted to send me (even though I requested Italy, Brail, or Belgium). I was sixteen when all of this was happening, in the middle of my sophomore year of high school. I hated high school and would have done anything to get out.
My whole family is from a small town places smack dab in the middle of Missouri. Other than Nelly, Mark Twain, and a few other celebrities, Missouri was hardly a place to be proud of, especially with it’s lack of famous history. Well at sixteen that was how I saw it. I lived in what you could call a small town. We had Wal-Mart, a few grocery stories, a movie store, a handful of fast food chains, and a movie theatres that would only house three movies at one time. I don’t know if you could call it quant. Not at sixteen. At sixteen it’s boredom.