Overboard Autobiography

So, our genius Health Teacher had us write half page Autobiographies. Honestly, I need no encouragement in writing an Autobiography. Big mistake on his part... I think I went a bit overboard. (We were instructed not to mention the obvious)

Autobiography

I was born in Boston. Perhaps that explains my fondness for Clam Chowder and why living in a city of snow and sea breezes is my idea of happiness, but not of home. I am rooted in Missouri, rooted as deeply as anyone can be in the sandy soil that is America’s brief history. When Charbonneau of the Lewis and Clark Expedition settled here, he laid down his line in our rich earth and clear rivers, mixing his blood with the Scottish, Irish, English, and Shoshone Indians to spawn a breed of hobos, hillbillies, and horse thieves that has led directly to me.

I was born from such apparent contradictions, and I have founded my life in the rich contrasts of our world, apparent to all those who try to understand it. Once I saw the Notre Dame, “Our Lady”, that beautiful Cathedral that straddles the Seine and is a stone’s throw away from the best ice cream in Paris. Not two weeks later I found myself on a different river, canoeing through two miles of self-styled “Redneck Yacht Club” to the tune of Gretchen Wilson and some guy trying to trade me his rifle for my dachshund.

I’ve captured a black widow in a jar from my bare foot, pulled a little girl out of a pool, and converted the ez-mac recipe to a campfire. I’ve played cursing games with a Norwegian, paintball with a German, and tongue twisters with a Finn (she beat me soundly). I’ve seen Socrates’ prison and the Stone of Pnyx where democracy was born, played British Monopoly in Papiamentu and snorkelled over a shipwreck. I’ve met a man, blind from birth, who fled Sudan in search of freedom and found his sight as well. I’ve been stung by Jelly Fish and Sea Anemones, charged by a crazy dog, and warned ‘not to drive on the autobahn’, until I am ready. I can say Our Father and scold children in Aramaic, the language of Jesus, and order drinks in Lithuanian. Once a week I attend the First Arabic Baptist Church; once a year the Womack Family Reunion and Weenie Roast in Farmington.

I’ve seen a man who could change his eye colour just by looking at a bird or a blanket. No ones ever been able to explain that to me, and I prefer it that way. It is truer to have seen it without explanation than to have accepted it blindly. After all, when we die, we are nothing; only a memory, a snapshot of the world seen through a cracked lens.

I did Compile a shorter version in case it's REALLY out of place:

I was born in Boston, but my roots are in Missouri. I am a mixture of French Canadian, Shoshone Indian, Scottish, Irish, English, and perhaps a bit of Spanish. My ancestor was Charbonneau of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. I’ve seen the Notre Dame and Socrates’ prison, been offered a Rifle in exchange for my dachshund, translated a wedding cake, scolded children in the language of Jesus, captured a black widow off my bare foot, and been asked out by an Italian in Germany. I’ve played cursing games with a Norwegian, paintball with a German, and tongue twisters with a Finn, who beat me soundly. Once a week I attend the First Arabic Baptist Church; once a year the Womack Family Reunion and Weenie Roast in Farmington.