What makes us different? I wear different clothes, look different, have a different kind of body, listen to different music and do different things with my time. These aren't differences, actually. They're really similarities. Everyone wears clothes, looks different from everyone else, etc. The differences are more than skin deep, but the similarities go much deeper. My experiment is to try and think of what it is that's deep down inside myself, and put it into words. This is hard to do. All I can think of right now is something that happened to me when I was a kid.
	When I was in the first or second grade, I once had to sit alone in my classroom through an entire lunch period because my teacher wouldn't let me leave until I finished an activity. It was a sort of brain-teaser thing. I was stuck on the last sheet, on which nine squares were printed. I was supposed to spell out the name of whatever object was pictured in each of the nine spaces. I started working, and being a good speller, I found it pretty easy. I got to about the third one, which was pretty obviously supposed to be a refrigerator, though the drawing was not exactly lifelike. At first I thought it would be easy. I started to write “fridge,” then realized that there were twelve spaces for letters. “Fridge” was too short. So, I thought about it, couldn't figure it out, then moved on to the next one. By the time I was finished, I had realized that fridge was short for something. I tried to fit “refridgerator,” seemingly the only logical spelling, but it was too long. The bell rang, and I was still trying to figure out what I was doing wrong. I stared at the picture, thinking that perhaps it wasn't a fridge at all, but something I had never before encountered. As the minutes passed, I began to get anxious. I was the only one left in the room. I felt like the teacher was sadistic for keeping me there for such a pointless activity. I may have even known enough curse words at this point to be cursing her out in my head as I sat staring at the paper and spacing out, or perhaps I just thought she was a jerk. Why couldn't the teacher have helped me out? I was only one letter off. I think this may have been the moment I began to despise school.
	You can't forget about the past, especially your own, even if you want to. And even if you did, what good would it do you? At the same time, how sure can you be that you remember things correctly? One time, while staying at a cabin in some park in California, I looked across the street and saw a brown bear jumping up and down on the hood of a parked car. 