Four examples:
1. In pre-kindergarten, I was in art class, and I was pretending that the paintbrushes were actually people with hair, so I sat in the back of the class, giving them "haircuts." I had to stay after class to clean up the mess, which was dumb because usually in salons, the stylist doesn't have to sweep up the hair that drops on the floor from the haircuts-- normally the shampoo person does that.
2. I was at a ceramic-painting party, around the age of seven. I was painting Bart Simpson figurine, and the boy across from me was painting Homer Simpson. For some reason that is still unknown to me, I began painting blue dots on the back of his project. When he finally noticed, he dipped his brush in brown paint, and painted all over my Bart Simpson. He then pressed his fingers into his eyes and cried. Although I started it, I remained emotionally unaffected.
3. I practiced writing the number 9 on the walls inside my closet in my bedroom. I wrote a couple other things, but mainly, it was just the number 9. My house was always well-stocked with paper. I doubt that we somehow encountered a paper shortage just as I had learned to write that particular number. It just seemed more appealing to write on the walls.
4. I was playing with hot pink paint, and I dropped some of it on the tan-colored carpet in my bedroom. I panicked, and tried to wipe it up, which only resulted in further smudging it into the carpet. I came up with the fairly solid idea of using scissors to cut out the carpet fibers that had paint on them. The result was a carpet with bald spots. Looking back on this incident, I wish I dealt with my anxiety in a more appropriate manner, such as blaming my parents. This was obviously their fault, as it was their decision to have light-colored carpeting in a child's room.
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