I spent my 8th birthday in the ER, with a concussion and bruised lip. But that was okay because I liked hospital pudding.
At the extremely wise and mature age of seven, I knew everything in the world. I knew which gender of dogs lift their legs to pee. I knew which nail polish color my mom wears when she wants to impress my dad. I even knew the lyrics to Don't Stop Believing. Well, besides long division. But when I'm the first female president, the first thing I'll do is ban math.
My older brother Matthew says he has great money sense. That's why it's okay for him to take care of my allowance every week. I don't know exactly where it goes, but he says it's for a good cause. So I can just let him take care of America's money.


But besides the remainder of 218 divided by 7, there was one other thing my brain could not figure out. The meaning of life. My dad says no one knows, but I know if I think hard enough, I'll figure it out. So that's why at my football birthday part (Dad and Matthew were always big fans, they got me into it too.), everyone but the birthday girl was out on the field, wrestling and running. I was sitting on the bleachers, pondering this vast mystery. Why did we exist? Why were humans on the earth? Where did we come from?






But then a lightbulb went off in my head. It hit me.








The football. Not the meaning of life.