Now, I'm not finished with this yet, but I'm open to any suggestions.
No promises on how often I will add bits to this, because I'm certainly far from done, but I just wanted to give you guys what I'm starting with.
(by the way this is a true story)

---

Florida has an amusing name for sending the mentally unstable to a mental hospital: baker-acted. If you heard that term for the first time, you would think it had something to do with the rights of bakers and bakery owners; apparently, it was named after the guy who really enjoyed studying mental behavior or something of that nature.

I was baker-acted for the first time when I was eight. I was the type of child who craved attention so badly that I would act out in numerous ways to get it; so, I guess you could say I had behavioral issues. I will admit that I had a short fuse for a temper and got my feelings hurt extremely easily, but I enjoyed the trouble I would somehow weasel my way into. I don’t remember the exact details of this one incident, but I once threw a chair at my teacher– which was considered unacceptable behavior, by the way–and threatened this black kid named Steven something along the lines of “You’re next.” Of course, that shit wouldn’t go fly idly by, so my teacher walked over to the intercom and called for the principal. Her name was Mrs. Streeter; her name still makes me cringe. We had the type of relationship where we both hated each other but couldn’t act out on it; I mean, I could have, but I’m being brutally honest when I say I was terrified of this bitch. This was probably going to be the worst trouble I’ve been in yet; so, instead of just waiting for the principal to show up, putting on my baby face and saying “I’m sowwy,” I hightailed my ass out of that classroom and down the hallway.

Now, I was a chubby kid: I was the kind of chubby kid that would just sit under the cool shade from underneath the slide–instead of physically exerting herself like the other children–or just stand still when playing team sports such as kickball at recess; so, of course, I wasn’t the most physically fit. Now, with that said, I had never realized how long our hallway was until I was running through it as fast as I could. I got a little more than halfway there before I was so out of breath that I had to stop. I looked behind me and I saw an office assistant, the principal, the assistant principal, and a resource officer running in my direction. Now, at this point I was already scared, but seeing the police uniform made something click in my ignorant eight-year-old head that if I didn’t keep running I was going to jail. This certainly was a silly thought, I know, but my parents watched Cops every night and whenever the criminals would run, they would go to jail when they were caught. It didn’t matter if I hadn’t really committed a crime; I didn’t really have time to think. I knew I couldn’t run towards the front of the school anymore and there was no way I could get past the wall of adults heading towards me. I started jogging towards the back double doors, passing by the janitor, Mr. Moon, who gave me an odd gaze but continued to sweep the floor. He could have easily grabbed me, thrown me down onto the floor and held me there until the teachers arrived, but that wasn’t his job and he definitely wasn’t going to go out of his way to do it. I no longer felt out of breath; I was enjoying the adrenaline rush. When I finally made it to the doors, I forced them open so hard that the bang from the door hitting the brick wall probably shook China, or something. Now, my original plan was to run out the back, past the playground, through the backyards of the neighboring houses, and flee home. Since it was near the end of the day, I discovered, to my horror, that the custodian had closed the gate leading to this playground. I had previously known that they closed the gate at night to keep troublesome teenagers from sneaking in at night to smoke weed and have sex, but it was like 1:30–what the hell? I had nowhere to go; if I ran back inside I would be greeted by the people whom I was desperately trying to escape from. The only choice I had was to scale the eight foot tall chain link fence. I wasn’t the type of child who enjoyed climbing trees and therefore wasn’t really experienced in this sort of thing, but I was doing pretty well. My foot slipped twice, but my weak upper body strength was enough to keep me up. When I reached the top, I tried to swing my leg over, since I thought I was in the clear to jump off, but my jeans got caught on the sharp forked prongs and I was quickly flipped upside down, hanging for about ten seconds until my jeans came off and I hit the ground. Before I could even get up, a deep, stern, manly, voice told me “Don’t move.” Game over.