This was copy/pasted from my MySpace blog, so it will not make nearly as much sense to those of you who don't know me personally. Then again, I doubt hardly anyone will read it anyway, but I felt like posting it here.

This is not about emotional drama or video games. It's not about school or work. It's simply about me. There is no moral to the story, no deep meaning behind it all that I'm trying to explain. It is just thoughts, transcribed with as much (or as little) delicacy as I care to muster.

I always enjoy learning about my childhood, what I was like before times when I can remember. Sometimes, they fill in the gaps of my memory, and other times they refresh it, turning on a dim light in a dark room in the recess of my mind. There are some things I remember. I was a very sensitive child, and I was very precocious.

I remember living a set of apartments here in Eugene, years and years ago. Some of you will remember me pointing them out to you. Over on Willamette, by the Wendy's, there are some apartments there the street-side has a wall of balconies. I recall seeing those balconies through the window of the backseat of a car. I remember thinking that it was where I lived, though if you asked, I couldn't tell you the color of the car I was in or what kind of stuff was in the apartment in question. I simply have the image in my mind.

I remember grade school. I was the manager of the student store at Meadowlark, along with my friend Cassie. Cassie and I were close there for a while, and though we are still in touch we have wandered. but back then, we were a match. I just pretended that I thought she had cooties at the time. Silly kids. I remember her imagination. More vivid at that time than any I can recall to date. I also remember Jake, though he is a constant. He is like a brother, my other hand, my reflection in times of need.

I also remember how different I felt from the other kids. Though, of course, don't we all feel different? I remember that when other kids would color or play games or read whatever age-oriented stuff we had on hand, I would be the one reading about the hole in the ozone layer and 'oh no, we're in trouble!'. I remember wanting so much to do well in school. We had an imaginative writing assignment, only a few pages long. Mine was..if I recall, about seven and a half. The teacher read it aloud to the class. It was about an older, wise scientist and his young assistant. They have an adventure in a volcano, then go back to the lab and realize that their research could mean that we can save lives by predicting eruptions. A jealous co-worker kidnapped the scientist, dragging her into a large freezer unit, where the hero followed and saved her. A lot of plot for less then a dozen pages.

I also remember having a mini breakdown in the middle of class because on our weekly math challenge question, I got it wrong, and I was so proud of my answer. I had interpreted the question in a different way than the rest of the class, so my answer was still valid, but different, because of subjective wording.

Even before school, though, I was extremely precocious, ahead of my time. I was writing before I was reading, actually. When I was about three and a half years old, I was sitting at the table with my mom and grandma, who were, as was common, playing Rummy. They had a piece of paper to keep score, so I took a piece of paper and scribbled on it. Mostly they were just scribbles, nothing special. Then at one point, I drew a little swirly scribble, labeled it with the word "mom", and said "I made this for you, here ya go." and gave it to my mom. I wasn't even reading at the time, and it stunned my mom at the time.

Before I ever entered kindergarden, I was reading, writing, and doing basic math. One day I was seeing my pediatrician, and I was left alone for a long time in the room with my mom. I took some crayons and got up on the bed. If you've been to a doctor's office lately, you know they have a sheet of paper across the bed that you lie on. at 5 years old, I took my crayons and drew on this piece of paper. First, I did my addition tables. 1 + 1 = 2, 2 + 1 = 3, until I got to 10 + 10 = 100. Then I wrote the alphabet out. Then I wrote the names of colors according to the color of the crayon I was holding. So writing out the word "red" with the red crayon. My doctor came back, and saw the writing. "Oh, did he write that?" she asked my mom.

"yes, he did."

"Wait. Really? You mean you didn't help him, he wrote all that?"

"Yep."

According to my mom, as I don't have a vivid memory of the incident, the doctor was stunned into silence for a few moments. Then with a casual, "Well, I guess I won't have to check his mental health!" she conducted the check-up.

When I finally did get into school, I always loved learning and helping. During day-care, I would inform the care taker that it was snack time, thank you very much. I would help out the younger kids. Even though i did not, at that time, have any of the eventually 6 siblings I would grow to have, I was already playing the role of elder brother. In class, I would always raise my hand, always be ready to stand out. Be smart. Be different.

Until second grade. Then, in second grade, I was taken out of the class during our math instruction. We took a desk out into the hall and I was tutored by a higher level math teacher, since I was ahead of anyone else in my class. I didn't want to go. it made me too different. it isolated me, ostracized me. From then on, as I feared, I was treated differently. "Teacher's Pet" was their weapon of choice, among many others. From then on, I did not raise my hand very often. I still excelled on my homework, but I made no effort to stand out.

I have always had very few friends. I have always been rather shy, hesitant to reach out to others, though if you engage me in converastion you'll realize that it can be hard to shut me up. I was not fit as a kid. Chubby or husky is the nicer term, but I knew that I was a fat youngster. Still am, if you ask me, though all my peers will disagree. Yet this has never been the overriding fear of others in school and other social environments. It was being the teacher's pet.

True, during 5th grade I was more independent. I was, as I said, the manager of the student store. we kept track of inventory, sales, and decided who would be "hired" to run the store. I remember, I had to actually fire one kid because he gave his friends cheap stuff. I was very indignant about this. I also remember wanting to order these pens that would blow bubbles that you could hold in your hand, but the teacher would not allow it. Also during this year, I volunteered in the homework center after school. Sometime before that, I had volunteered in SMART (Start Making A Reader Today) where I read to, and with, little kids from the lower grades. So, to some extent, I still excelled and stood out. but most of what I did was out of the "public eye" of my peers. I still didn't speak up in class alot, I wouldn't talk about my volunteering stuff very often.I didn't want to be different. This downhill deterioration of my determination continued, and as plagued my heavily in high school. I no longer desire to be on honor roll, as I was one year in middle school. I was relieved when I was no longer a part of the TAG (Talented And Gifted) program. I took advanced classes, but it is easier to blend in at high school, where there is always someone smarter than you. but even still, I don't always raise my hand. Sometimes because I don't know all the answers any more. I have lost much of my drive, much of my dedication, and I do not put forth the effort anymore. This is not only because of my early outcast, but also because I can get away with not doing much.

I wrote my senior paper's final draft two days before it was due. I got it back to day and I got an A-. I do projects, papers, homework at the last minute, and generally speaking, I do well. The biggest exception to this is my math classes, which ironically used to be my strongest subject, but has become my worst. Of course, saying my "worst" subject is advanced Calculus may be a hollow declaration, but the fact remains. If I had still pursued my love of academics that i had as a child in first and second grade, if I had pushed myself to learn and be better, I would probably be taking university classes, 4.0 gpa, all that happy shit. Same goes with my drawing. My writing. I do not do either very much. I think alot, which I consider my way of mentally writing, but my word count of things actually written is lacking compared to many, and yet when I write, be it for school, for college, or for independent game designers, my words always stand out. I'm not saying they're perfect. My grammar is terrible, because I write by what sounds accurate to me. Still. Similarly, with drawing, I very rarely draw and I am not up to the level as many of my good artist friends. Yet when I concentrate, I can occasionally end up with a respectable drawing, even an excellent one when you consider that I have absolutely no instruction or training and very, very little practice. So what if I had pursued these? What if I had started drawing when I was a kid, and kept at it, ignoring everything that people said to me? Where would I be? Who would I be?

I don't know.

I'm not sure I want to.

I am who I am, for better or for worse. I could be a better person. I could try harder. There is much that I am not proud of, but it is who I am. Who I have become. I have had the good blessing to find people who respect and enjoy that person that I have become, and have befriended me. For those, I give my thanks, and my appreciation, of which I can never give you enough. I was shunned by many, so for every single one of you I have, every friend, past or present, every kind presence in my life, know that you are worth a hundred of those who looked down on me, teased me, scorned me.

Thank you. This wasn't supposed to get so heavy or serious. I was just reflecting on my life. One last detail about it, though. The very earliest details of my life.

I almost did not survive my own birth.

I was blue, out of the womb. Not breathing. The usual slap that the doctors give to babies didn't jump-start my crying or breathing. I don't know the details of what happened, but I lived. I was my mother's first born, and I was her miracle baby, as she sometimes calls me (despite all my objections). For all that has happened to me, good or bad, I am grateful. because, in honesty...

I'm lucky to be here.