i think my parents traded our in first home- a two story dump- for our second home- a one story dump- partially because i had a habit of falling down the stairs. a lot. i fell down the stairs going from my bedroom to the living room on a semi-daily basis. i think i was just always in a big hurry to get from my bedroom, where there was no tv or bologna, to the downstairs, where there was a lot of tv and bologna, and i rarely watched where i was going. thus, i did a lot of tumbling.

i also walked into walls a lot at our first house, mainly the wall right by the stairs. i ceased to worry my parents because they just got used to hearing my random "thuds" either at the base of the stairs or against that one particular wall. they'd hear a "thud" and roll their eyes, saying, "there she goes again."

"i think i really hurt my brain," i told them once, upset because they didn't seem to care that i kept walking into walls.

my dad held up a seagram's 7 bottle. "what's the number on this bottle?" he asked. "can you see it clearly?" this would help him with his prognosis of whether or not i was fine.

i exaggerated my squinting. "it's a 'Q,'" i proclaimed. "and, who are you again?"

"you're fine, go play," he said. pouting, i purposefully walked into the wall once more, and then, on accident, managed to fall *up* the stairs. "now that," my dad said to my mother, "is at least something new."