Once upon a time when I was little and my older brother was babysitting me, I hated him. Oh, I was also a psychotic and largely bipolar little girl. Anyway so this particular brother, whom I have since bonded with, was being all sorts of bothersome, and so I called him, and I quote, a "son of a bitch" (sorry mom) at the angelic age of eight, I think. I then grabbed my plastic heart-shaped bank with an easily opened lock - its contents including something along the lines of three Dairy Queen sundae coins and a few nickels and pennies - and my ratty pink "blankie" and headed down the street. I got about three houses down, and then returned. I can't exactly remember the details of my return, but I think he might've come after me, apologizing while trying to stifle laughs that would further my escape.
My poor brother. I'm sure he had no idea what to do with such a freakish kid.
P.S. I wish Christopher McCandless would've packed one map and lived. What a waste.
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