Running Away

As a kid, running away always seemed so romantic to me. Like, that adventure kids on TV go on, where everything is just fine, and no one shows any concern for the 8 year old with a Toy Story backpack on walking the streets by himself at 11 at night. Hops on a cargo train and watches the skyline pass by. Hobos don't try to rob him, or rape him. Some generous store owners just hand the fucking kid a loaf of bread just for being cute.

Mind you, my childhood wasn't bad. I had no real reason to run away, it wouldn't benefit me at all, but I wanted to just cause it looked fun. So when I was like 8 I packed a backpack filled with like, one extra outfit, some goldfish crackers for the road, a Shawn Michaels action figure, you know, in case I get lonely. That's probably all that fit into my little backpack. I stashed it in my closet and waited for the perfect moment.

One night I almost did it, it was like 10 pm on a Saturday, my parents fell asleep, sister was asleep. This was my night, my moment. So I grabbed my backpack, put a sweater around my waist because god forbid it cold wherever the fuck I thought I was going, and headed out the front door. I didn't take keys because I didn't plan on coming back, but I didn't lock the door behind me either.

So, I get out onto the street, look around and realized. I don't know where the fuck to go. Where the fuck is the bus station? The train station? I live in an urban area, the movies are always kids in the suburbs. And I didn't have any fucking money. I turned my little ass right around and went back inside.