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Henry

Where to begin? I guess my first memory would be an appropriate way to start things off, so let’s just dive right in. It is brief and all I can recall is tumbling down a grey carpeted staircase surrounded by towering white walls. My parents tell me I was two, and that this incident was the result of a clumsy drop on my father’s part. Whatever the reason, I have never really associated this memory with pain but rather just the screaming thought, this sucks! It’s strange, but for whatever reason I seem to always have some type of internal dialogue going. I remember once, in the midst of a nasty skiing wipeout, just musing to myself, wow, this is an awfully bad fall. So I guess I’m just a little bit spacey, a trait I undoubtedly get from my Dad. It’s not always a bad thing. In fact, I often like being a bit of a daydreamer, but it can yield some pretty uncomfortable situations and it is often the cause of a lot of my problems.

But all this is beside the point. I, the writer, am supposed to recount the events of my life to you, the reader. So far we’ve gotten about twenty months through, so I’m going to have to speed things up.

If someone were to give you a little Henry handy book and you flipped open to a random chapter, I think I can guess what the general content of that segment would be. It would have to mention my drawing. Since I can remember (excluding that first memory) I have always been an artist. In preschool I drew dinosaurs, in kindergarten it was dogs, and now, some ten years later, I’ll draw pretty much anything that’s tangible. It’s not like my life revolves around art or anything, it’s just something that I occasionally sit down and do.

Later on in that imaginary book, certainly in a section separate from the drawing, I know there would be at least one paragraph on my love for reading. Despite the overwhelming quantity of work I occasionally receive, reading for a long time is a relaxing hobby of mine. A book is an escape from reality, and for me, swapping my world with that of Jack London’s, or George Orwell’s, is always a viable option.

Last but not least, I bet a couple sentences in that book would be dedicated to my friends and family. These people have always given me their love and affection, they are most responsible for my growth as a person, and for this, they have permanently earned my friendship.