An autobiography is made up of multiple stories of the author’s life. They’re used to convey a message to inform you of the state of the author’s life in that story. Here are three stories I would write in my autobiography. These stories occurred some time in the past five to eight years, as I cannot remember anything before that.
When I was younger, I was riskier than now. I played rough and did things that could have pretty bad consequences. My house had a sidewalk like path around it, and I used to ride my bike along the path. Once, when I was about 7 or 8, I was riding my bike the morning after a severe storm, and the deck chairs on the side of my house had been knocked to the ground. The part of the chair you put your back on was flat on the floor. As I was riding, I saw the chairs, but instead of thinking to go around them or stop and fix them, I thought, “I’ll just go over them, no harm in that.” And so, I rode my bike right over a chair, thinking I’d be fine, but then my bike tire slipped or something, I didn’t see how it happened. And I was thrown off, like a horse rider thrown off the horses back. I hit the ground, scraping the skin right off my elbow. I went inside the house, trying not to cry. My mom took my into the bathroom and poured hydrogen peroxide on my elbow. I remember it stinging, like rubbing salt into the wound. She bandaged my elbow and I went right back outside and continued riding my bike like nothing happened.
My brother, me, and two of our friends, started a “club”, but we thought clubs were cheesy, so we refer ourselves as a group. At the time, my brother and one of our friends who was in the group were about 7, and the other member and I were around 9. We were the perfect group, two boys and two girls within two years of age difference. The group was originally my brother’s idea, but we all contributed to it somehow. We took all our first initials and moved them around, eventually settling on calling ourselves, “the MAMS”.
At some point, presumably when we were between 9 and 11, we tried to make a code language. We started by making random words and phrases mean certain other words and sentences, like, “crack the egg” meant “go outside” and, “over the hill” meant “downstairs”. But it was too hard to remember what meant what, because the code words were completely random. So we attempted to make a code language using numbers. Each letter in the alphabet was a number, originally it was, A = 1 to Z = 26. But we figured it was too easy for other people to figure out. So we flipped it. A = 26 to Z = 1. But then we got confused, and every time we tried to speak in code, we had to think of which letter is which number, then slowly say it, and then the other person would have to take a few minutes to count out each number to decipher the sentence. And we could only speak in two or three-word sentences, because more than that took way too long. Now that we’re all between 12 and 14, we ditched the whole code language thing, and just talk in normal English, with the occasional teen or gamer slang here and there.
My grandmother is great at sewing, and she taught me how to fix clothing that ripped, and make new clothes. I liked sewing, and I met a few girls who also liked sewing (to an extent). So my mom arranged for the three or so girls to come over on Fridays, and we sewed something together. It was a new project every week for about a year. One of the girls who came was rather rude to me, and I didn’t like her so much. We’ll call her Amy. Once, after we had all finished sewing, we were sent outside to play. I didn’t want anyone to ride my bike, so I told everyone they could play with whatever toys and things they wanted, just not my bike. I walked off with one girl, who is now an even closer friend than she was then. We were just walking and talking when she goes, “Amy’s riding your bike.” To say I was upset is an understatement. I was practically furious. Looking back now, I don’t know why I was so angry about it, but at the time it had me ready to tear her apart. So I walked over and asked her to, “Please put my bike back.” She said no. My friend jumped in and told her she was being rude. Amy just snapped at her, “Stay out of it.” Eventually she put the bike back, and I went back to talking to my friend. Those two girls are now my closest friends, and to this day we look back at our childish, 11-year-old selves, fighting over a bike and laugh.