To start the blog off the first couple of stories will be semi-autobiographical with some dramatization, so any readers can start to know who am at least a little bit. The first one is about about an event that happened when I was around six and is titled, The Terrifying Spinning Cirlce. Read, enjoy, comment.

Merry-go-round, three words combined that invoke fellings of joy, fun and nauseating dizziness in most children. Yet those same words have caused me fear, hatred, and blazing pain since I was a child of six. No really I’m not joking. Trust me I’m telling the truth.
All so right now I’m guessing your thinking what kind of whinny little pansy is this to be a scared of merry-go-rounds? One that has had a very bad go with one is who! You see it all started on a summer day when I was six. It was a great summer day with frequent cool breezes, making it great enough to lead my mom into believing we should go to the park, yea what a terrific wonderful idea mom.
So I hopped into my mom’s old beat up blue car with my brother and sister, and off to Wyandotte County Park we went. When we arrived at the park, we drove around for little while, looking for the best playground we could find. Finally we decided on a fairly unremarkable one, with the saving grace of a rusted old cirlce painted many different colors many different times with old metal hand rails sticking up. The saving grace was a merry-go-round. Well at least we thought that to be a saving grace.

Of course we did not, just jumped right onto the merry-go-round, you can’t have ice cream first can you? I guess I usually do have my ice cream first but that is besides the point. So instead we surveyed the other playground equipment to find there were four swings and a slide about seven feet high, that we would probably play on. After the quick survey, we headed to the swings that we soon discovered needed a oiling job badly and had a jumping contest. Well at least my brother and I did, my sister like always was to scared. After beating my brother, although he would claim differently on the result; we braved the dizzyingly high seven foot slide, that seemed a lot taller then. We had an excellent time, at first speeding down the slide, and then latter becoming more adventurous trying to find new ways of going down.
Finally it was time for the merry-go-round. As usual my brother had the privilege to push, since he was both the oldest and strongest; although I was clearly better looking with my blonde wavy hair compared to his ugly brown. While he was spinning the merry-go-round I was doing what every aunry six year old boy would do jump of from it.
“Charles, go faster. Come on I’m not a little kid any more you can put more strength into it!” I shouted at the top of my voice through dizziness at my brother.
“Alright hold on, and see what this does too you,” He responded, as his arms moved the bars more rapidly.
During one of my jumping excursions, or maybe my hand simply slipped and I fell off, I’m not really sure which way it happened, thanks to the bump to the head I received during the accident. Remembering how it happened does not really matter though. What does was me pulling my leg out from under the rusted metal circle with my kneeing gushing blood, after it had been trapped under the terrifying spinning circle.
As I started to limp away with my back toward the ugly little death trap I heard my brother yell, “Go see mom,” talking with him later I found out he believed I was only scratched, since I wasn’t crying or complaining. Does that prove that I’m not the whinny little pansy you thought I was when this story started!?
Once I arrived at my mom’s side, she released a blood curling, glass breaking, intense shriek. She quickly had me in the car with a t-shirt wrapped around my knee to stem the blood flow, and my siblings eerily quiet in the seats behind me. We franticly rushed into our doctors office, only for the sissy bastard to tell us he only stitched up adults, he wouldn’t sew up kids. So off we were speeding again, this time to the hospital. When we arrived the doctor inspected the gash and we learned that the white stuff showing in the gap was my bone it. He soon told us that it would need twelve stitches six inside, and six outside.
So basically the whole point of this story was to let you know that when someone tells you they’re scared of merry-go-rounds don’t laugh and make fun of them, ask them for their reason first. Then crake jokes at them, I mean come on a merry-go-round!? I received twelve stitches from one and was only messing with you when I said I feared them.