Personal Narrative Essay

I thankfully didn’t have another fucked up dream after the last one. I tried thinking about why I had that sort of dream, or rather nightmare. I wondered why it felt so real, I’ve had dreams like that before, but never as chaotic as that, let alone who real it felt. It was night-time in Arcadia Bay, but I figured it was past midnight. All the shops and houses were undisturbed by us. The ocean was quiet, the moons light reflected into it. It wasn’t long until we had it to our new home. The house was

"Are you sure?" These were the words the 8 year old version of me first heard after coming home from my grandparent's house. When I was younger, I spent most of my time with my father's parents. Both of mine worked, and we needed someone to babysit. Whether it be in politics or behavior, they are the epitome of being conservative; however, My mother is quite a bit more liberal. I grew up listening to the likes of Bill O'Reilly and Glenn Beck at my grandparents, and I would often come home to repeat

I was tired of my father getting on my butt as soon as our eyes met, my mother in my face whenever I came home and my older brother constantly pushing me around at every turn. I was home now and prepared to tell all of them that I had finally said hello and she blew me off and that was that. I was ready to chuck my book bag through a wall as soon as the door closed behind me, but it and the wall never did a thing to me. I had to admit what had upset me more than chubby blowing me off was the fact

This is the story about me. It is a very weird story which, no, I didn’t even want to do. Why am I doing this? It’s because of this school thing I have to do. Well, let’s get this over with. When I was a baby, I did many babyish things. I was a real crybaby. For instance, I cried because of a poopy diaper I was wearing. When I pooped, the diaper had to suffer, because I couldn’t use the toilet, especially considering I didn’t know what a toilet was. Another reason I cried was because I was hungry

My life began in Manhattan, New York in January of the year 1977. I was born to a 21 year old Irish American mother, Catherine Cunningham, and a 60 year old Sicilian American father, Anthony Perniciaro. My parents came from very different backgrounds. My mother’s family was relatively wealthy and affluent. My father was born and raised in Brooklyn. His parents were extremely poor immigrants that were seriously affected by the Great Depression. My father was a bricklayer and an artist when he met

In the 18 years I’ve been alive, I can honestly say I don’t regret much. I didn’t get in trouble a lot, I never broke a lamp and lied about it, or any other such childish nonsense. I always thought lying was stupid, so I didn’t do it. I sometimes did silly things, but everyone does those. Were the things I did embarrassing? Of course. But I didn’t regret them. I was regret free until my freshman year. I met this guy at some stupid leadership camp my mom made me go to over the summer. His name was

Bright and early on my fifth birthday, my family and I uprooted our lives in Florida and traveled here to Georgia. Memories of Florida are hazy, but if I were to describe the past years here in Georgia in a single word, bold and in all caps would be the word “struggle.” We came here chasing a dream, the dream of a prosperous future in the booming automotive industry. Unfortunately that dream shattered to pieces, and like a barrier, we endured the shrapnel. My father was a Ping-Pong ball in a heated

“Do you think Brandon will let me ride Buck, Mom?” I asked. It was not the first time I had asked. I hardly slept the night before out of excitement for this day. “I am sure that you can ask him. He has always been good about giving you a ride on his horse. I think that today won’t be any different, sweetheart.” My mom patiently answered. “But now I really need you to clean up your room before we go, remember the longer it takes the later we will leave.” It took no further urging, I raced

I listened to my favorite music when you were on tour. When I came home from work—I’d turn on the record player, sway slowly with the first verse—then dance through the house shouting the words like I wrote them myself. They were the singers you hated. Janice Joplin, The Mamas And The Papas, Stevie Knicks. Their songs all sounded the same you told me. Whiny and angry and absolutely no fun. That’s what life was about for you: fun. If you weren’t having fun, it wasn’t worth your time. It was how I

I didn’t make any mistakes. I was the perfect gentleman every girl likes to talk about, but would run for the hills if they had to put up with a blank piece of paper. Well, the evening was over now and I was pulling up to her front door. To my surprise, her parents were waiting for the two of us with bright smiles. I opened her door, helped her out, handed over the teddy bear I won, doggy bag, said see you at school, and received a wet one from her. On my drive home, I wondered how much it