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Isn't it strange that two people can be a part of an event and have two totally different experiences? Today during class, we took a tour of a nearby children's treatment facility. At one point, my friend asked me my impression of things. We discussed our experiences and I was again surprised to find that we were looking at the same building and children, yet interpreting some things differently. And I've thought about it with my brothers. We grew up with the same parents, yet I have different relationships with my momma and daddy than they do. I remember things differently. My life is made up of millions of memories that are mine alone. I could talk for hours about my memories, but I could never begin to describe everything I remember, every nuance, every smell, every sensation, every feeling. I'm sitting in a corner of the computer lab in the social work building on the campus of UA. I could list strings of events that lead me to this moment in time at 4:13 and thirty seconds on December 5, 2007. I have my foot propped up from a fall I took 3 days ago alone on a trail. My black leather jacket is drapped across the back of my chair. The jacket my mom got me in New York when we went there over Spring Break with some friends several years ago. My bright red backpack is sitting on the chair. The one that I don't really like, yet can't seem to get a new one because this one still works. It's got white out spilled and stained on the front and a tiny stapler in the front pocket. I'm about to go to pyschopathology and sit in the back row with Monica and Emily and roll my eyes when things get really boring. (I never sit in the back row.) I could go on and on. All these little things are part of my life, part of my memories.