When I was born I was freaking awesome. My dad tells me I was all head and could cough for an entire night without stopping. By third grade I knew at least ten nursery rhymes. I could write my name in cursive. I learned my times tables in under three months. I understood what a hypothesis was within minutes of my teacher telling me. By junior high I was fluent in English, backtalk, and Midwest Caucasian. At fourteen I could rollerblade both backwards and forwards. At fifteen I could clear a sewer grate. Between 18 and 20, I learned to identify at least four reservoirs beneath the hood of a car, survived two weeks in a tent with nothing but a cooler full of food and a debit card, moved my t-shirt and CD collections into a dorm room, convinced a chemistry teacher to pass me, financed a midsize car. After that I was unstoppable. I ate dinner in restaurants, shopped in produce departments, held short conversations at parties with average looking men, mini-golfed on weekends, slept in late on Sundays, repainted wicker furniture, nursed a cold sore, scrambled eggs with ease.

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