Have you ever had that moment where you think, Maybe I really am one of God’s favorites?

This blog will be filled with these moments — the kinds of stories you’d think I made up, if you didn’t know me. Every story will fold in with another. Make sure you pay attention…

This one is about Sarah.

She wasn’t technically my first relationship, but our codependency made it feel that way. I didn’t realize just how much until college —

People come into your life to teach you specific lessons. Sarah’s lesson?

If you’re not f*ing me, financing me, or feeding me, I’m not arguing with you.

At fifteen, I was already the kind of person random things happened to — being pushed out of a three-story window, almost getting hit by a car… the list goes on.

One afternoon, Sarah and I went to our friend Brian’s house after school. We were in his bedroom playing video games when he suddenly came back in looking panicked.

“My parents are home,” he said.

Okay? We kept playing.

“I’m not allowed to have company.”

Brian liked the idea of having girls over but not enough to risk getting caught. As we packed up to leave, he told us we couldn’t go out the front door. Sarah joked, “What do you want us to do, jump out the window?”

Ten minutes later, Brian returned with several bed sheets tied together. Sarah, being more athletic — soccer player at a rich white school, plenty of playing time — went first and made it down easily. Me? I was the football team manager ([Bookmark: football team stories will explain more about why I went along with things like this]).

I climbed onto the ledge. Sarah called up that the coast was clear. Then Brian asked, “Do you want to give me a kiss before you leave?”

This is where you need to remember something — almost every guy Sarah dated would try to kiss me ([Bookmark: this becomes a pattern in later stories]) and she’d stay with them anyway. Brian was no exception.

I said no and started to back out. But before I could climb back in, Brian peeled my fingers off the ledge, one by one.

Feet.

Butt.

Back.

Blackout.

I woke up to screaming — mine — and somehow managed to walk back to Sarah’s house. If you’ve ever had a Black Caribbean mother, you know fear alone can give you the strength to move.

Her mom called an ambulance. At the hospital, we told everyone I’d jumped off a swing. It didn’t make sense, but no one questioned me.

When my mom was signing discharge papers, I told her the truth. She cried for a few minutes, then cursed me out for the next forty-five. I was grounded for weeks.

I left with a back brace — my “jet pack.” No physical therapy because I was “young and would heal.” I didn’t. Sarah came by during the first week, but after that she said it wasn’t fun to visit since I couldn’t “stick the landing.” The second week, she told me she and Brian were dating.

We stayed friends for seven more years. We stole from a store together, spent the night at a hotel party ([Bookmark: A video is worth a thousand words]), almost got arrested at beach week in Ocean City ([Bookmark: Ocean City 2013]), and she once tried to make me share a bed with a stranger on a trip so she could be with her boyfriend.

I can’t even remember how we became friends. But if you’re wondering whether I made this up — remember this. I ALWAYS have receipts.