Up until I was seventeen, it was easier to stay home and risk being beaten once in a while than face being a runaway. Then, when I was seventeen, I couldn't take it any more and hit back for the first time. I pushed my mother away from me so hard that she hit the wall with her head and was knocked out. I saw my chance and ran.

I did feel the need to be out of the house a lot for a time, when my parents' marriage was tanking rather spectacularly, but I never considered running away. That's where my cat was.

And the time I thought I was running away as an adult, it turned out I was just standing my ground.

ks

^That counts as running to. I'm really grateful to her for being there for you, and to you for being there for her.

If you ever write a memoir, you should let us know.

So here's the question of the day, for Sunday the 20th:

If you wrote a memoir of your life or some part of it, what would the title be?

a catalogue of disappointment

"And you thought craig johnston had it bad..."

boundary.

for lack of better words. " a charmed life" i really cant complain

peas

^ooooh, so close. I had my money on "biscuits."

I'm having a hard time answering my own question....hmmm...

"Growing past stupid, the unending journey."

"chicken is not a time bomb: a life of endless worrying"

Got it:

La Sombrerona: The Bird with One Wing Doesn't Half Fly

"A guide to adaptation, the hard way"