Assignment #8: Liz Graves

Fears: heights, public embarrassment, spiders

Annoyances: pencil clicking/tapping/squeaking, chewing with your mouth open

Accomplishments: potty-training my dog, illegally streaming shows without getting computer viruses (knock on wood)

Confusions: AP Physics, driving stick-shift

Sorrows: envy, Graeter's Coffee ice-cream (they discontinued it...)

Dreams: Travel to at least 10 different countries, go to bed before 12 a.m. on a school night

Idiosyncrasies: bookstore junkie, love the smell of kids' plastic sandals 

Risks: watched Insidious Chapter 2 (didn't sleep the entire month of January), flip off the high-dive (maybe someday)

Beloved Possessions, Now and Then: Beauty and the Beast VCR Tape (then), baby-blue nail polish (now)

Problems: procrastination

I’ve grown up in the country, where if you get a little dirt in your mouth “it’s good protein.” I shouldn’t be afraid of spiders, and I wasn’t, until one fateful incident in the summer before 5th grade. 

I’m the first of four kids, so my mother feels a little more strongly about all of my child-hood firsts than my youngest sister’s. Consequently, she put off my first haircut a little too long. By the time I was in 4th grade, the single braid down the middle of my back, which had been my uniform for so many years, reached down to my hips. But what does this have to do with my fear of spiders? Well, as anyone with long hair knows, a singly loose strand of hair is not uncommon. Unfortunately, it feels exactly like a bug tickling the nerve endings on your skin. At the age of 9, I’d had my fair share of the hair-that-cried-wolf-stories, where I was positive one of the little beasts was crawling on my arm, shoulder, or leg, but upon further investigation it was only a rouge strand of hair. One hot summer day, however, I was playing in the grass outside and I felt the tell-tale tickle on my neck. It was my stupid hair again, I thought, quite literally pushing the thought aside. Still, the sensation wouldn’t go away, so I ventured a glance over my shoulder to see if a leaf or blade of grass had blown onto my back. Staring back at me were the eight jet-black legs and eyes of a gigantic Daddy-Long-Leg. I shrieked and swiped my hand across my shoulder, and watched the devil sail through the air. The image still haunts me. Even as I write this, I keep scratching my arms and shoulders. I actually have to step away from this. It still can’t talk about it. Moral of the story: spiders are horrible, god-forsaken, space-violating creatures birthed in the depths of hell.