I am rather fond of the scar on my right knee. Me and my friend Carrie headed to the top of Stoneleigh Road, with its infamous hill, with our bikes, intent on speed. I hit the curve too fast, of course, skidded in the sand, and down I went, on my black and yellow banana seat, so to speak. I wish I'd been brave: I limped home in tears, leaving my bike behind for Carrie to deal with. My mom drove me to my Uncle Sam's, a doctor, who just sprayed some of that stinging red stuff on it (motherf*cker!) and the rest of my cuts and scrapes and sent us home. I probably needed stitches. I have one of those dark, wide scars, about two inches long on my right knee. A badge of honor, indeed.

I re-read that thread yesterday, dg, and laughed 'til I was crying.

But proud? I don't know about that, but I'm not ashamed. I was a kid, kids do stupid things. You learn from making mistakes. And really, my stories are nothing compared to my brothers'.

My younger brother and I (my usual side-kick) decided to "camp" in our garage. We made a fire on the floor and almost set the whole place on fire. We managed to get it out and get the door open (we were pretty young and it was a double door, I think sheer panic gave us the strength to get it open). It took a long time for the smoke to dissapate but to this day, no one knows it happened.

BB guns were always around. We used to shoot at those big grey things attached to telephone poles and other assorted electrical equipment. There were a couple close calls when a BB would come back at us. I'm surprised we never caused a power outtage or a fire. We shot at other things, but that was the most dangerous stunt(s) we pulled. My threatening to use a BB gun on my next older brother doesn't count because he deserved it (and then some, I suffered some horrible abuse from him).

We broke into a day-care that was across the street from us (we had two friends with us that day). We rummaged around a bit and made a mess but we never got caught.

We used to roam around Chapman College (now University, in the City of Orange in SoCal); we lived across the street. We'd steal stuff from the vending machines, try to get into unlocked class rooms (that only happened once or twice but we just looked around), roam around at night (when we were supposed to be in bed) doing the above and making a mess out of the landscaping. Either they didn't have security guards or we were lucky.

I don't really have any lingering physical scars. A couple years ago I noticed that a scar I got from playing with matches (six years old, second degree burn on my hand) had finally disappeared. I don't have a scar from the five inch nail that went through my left foot (I was five and only vaguely remember it happening). I fell from a tree and broke my arm, but it was so badly scratched and scraped I couldn't wear a cast (that really pissed me off, I wanted a cast!).

I don't have many scars. There's one on my left ankle, outside, that I got from accidentally stepping on the sprinkler while running through it. And one on my right wrist from falling off my bike. But I remember leaving the house in the morning and returning at night, and my mom not worrying about me. These days, I make my kids check in like every 45 minutes or I send a sibling after them.