I remember one summer during high school, my friend Risa was a counselor at our town’s day camp. We were hanging out and she was recounting a story where a kid was lagging behind the others and she said to him, “What do you think you’re special?”

Have you seen the movie Ratatouille where the old bitter critic tastes the ratatouille and it sends him back to childhood and he turns into a young boy? Well, that happened to me when Risa said those words, “What do you think your special?” I had gone to that same day camp. I think I fell behind when we were supposed to be going someplace. Some counselor said that to me, “What do you think you’re special?”

I was offended. Even as a child. First of all, what a shitty thing to say to a kid. Second of all, how did that particular saying become a tradition at that day camp? But also, to be fair, yes, I thought I was special.

If I could go back in time and interact with my child self, I don’t think I would have liked young me very much. I remember crying at a Boy Scouts Pinewood derby because my car didn’t win. I remember hiding behind a tree because I didn’t win a race in second grade gym class. I also slid our class hamster along the floor to another kid because we discovered that it would slide. I whined. I cried. I was obliviously cruel to animals. I was, well, a child.

I remember one recess in Mrs. Doherty’s class at Council Rock Elementary school. I was swinging when Mrs. Doherty called us all to line up and go back to class. I thought to myself, “What if I just didn’t go? What could she do?” So, I just kept swinging. In my memory, I had a smug grin on my face as I did it. Mrs. Doherty, to her credit, wasn’t giving me the satisfaction. She told me twice or three times to get in line. I didn’t, so, she focused on the kids who weren’t being assholes. “Why doesn’t Robby have to come in from recess?” I heard someone ask. (Looking back as an adult, I realize that that she left a seven-year-old kid outside alone in a school playground. She must have been trying to teach me a lesson, knowing I would come back. Or she thought, I don’t care what happens to this kid, to hell with him.)

Off they went, back to class. I kept swinging. After a few minutes of being out there alone, I thought, “Well, I proved my point, time to head back.” I walked back into school, back to my classroom. I walked back in and took a seat at my desk. Mrs. Doherty asked to see me outside where she tore me a new one (second grade style). It shocked me back into submission and I never disobeyed a teacher again.

Why do I hold on to stories like this? Well, I hold on to everything, that’s just part of who I am. But I wonder where that came from, that instinct to think that the rules shouldn’t apply to me, that I’m special. I wonder if I’ve shed that instinct. I mean, as an adult, I write about myself daily and I get on stage to perform improv and tell personal stories. So, maybe not. And every time I’ve thought that life owes me something, I’ve fallen flat on my ass.

If I could talk to my twenty-something self, I think I’d say let yourself have more fun. If I talked to my college self, I’d say you don’t have to study engineering. My high school self? Lighten up. My middle school self? Watch a little less TV. As for my youngest self, I’d say, “Stop swinging and get in line, you little shit.”