Messing with the Milk Man

Pulling pranks, or going on late night adventures with my friends was a way for me to get away from my life back at home. No matter what we all did, I was able to forget about the fights with my mother awaiting me the next day. My mind was set on hiding, running, and laughing with my friends. Nothing more.
One night, back in high school, my friends and I decided to go out and pull a funny prank. We had one of my friends lie down on the curb, covered with watered down ketchup, as he pretended to be dead. The rest of us hid behind a nearby bush to watch in laughter. A truck had turned the corner and slammed to a stop; a milk man stepped out, and slowly approached my friend’s body. When he got close enough, the ketchup must have looked pretty real, because he gave a little screech. My friend jumped to his feet and yelled at the man, making him stumble backwards, and then, very idiotically, ran right towards the rest of us. The milk man quickly returned to his truck and sped down the road. Scrambling to our feet in laughter, we sprinted across the street and separated into various fields and yards, trying to escape the threatening milk man. After eventually returning back to the house, we discovered the many wounds we gathered during our escape. Only a few stitches were necessary to patch these up, and to conclude the night. I believe in messing with the milk man.
Throughout high school, while I was hanging out with my friends, I wouldn’t have to be in a defensive mode, waiting to hear the wrath of my mom. I found enjoyment when we were bombarding skaters at the skate park with a water balloon launcher, and frantically running away from the bikers with baseball bats. Or pretending to beat the living hell out of one of my friends late at night, just to see what people would do, only to have cops pull up and start chasing us through the neighborhoods. The late night excursions we would go on was the only way I could truly forget about my life at home, and just have a good time.
While I was growing up in a split family, I could never find a way out of being a disappointment in my mother’s eyes. “Taylor, you used to be such a good kid, why do you have to be so much like your father?” The tension between her and my dad overflowed into my life, causing many fights about the relationship I have with this, in her words, “Pathetic father” of mine. I was caught in a war between my parents that I have yet to escape. When I think back to how I became who I am today, I don’t think of my family or my childhood, I think of my best friends Nick, Nick, and Johnny, and the adventures we all shared.

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