My name is Waldo. I kid you not. Oh, and if you ever call me that, I’ll kill you. See this sharp, pointy object right here? It’s called a dagger, can you guess what it does?

            Well, if your gonna call me anything, it’s Terry. Comes from my middle name, Walter. Okay, so, it only kind of does…but that’s beside the point. The point is that my whole name is a joke, Waldo Walter Willem. It doesn’t get any sadder than that. Really, my dad never seemed like an eccentric guy, well, what I remember of him, so maybe when he was drunk or something. I don’t know. My mom wouldn’t be that stupid (I think…) she’s sweet and too nice to inflict something like the name Waldo Walter Willem on her poor unsuspecting son. No seriously, what’s up with that name!! I’ve been teased about it all my life, which is why I decided to leave our little town. Dad was a farmer, but after he went off and got killed, mom raised us by relying on her skills as a seamstress.

            Should I feel guilty about leaving my poor, aging mother all alone? Well, don’t you tell anyone, but I do. But…come on! I mean, I never was suited to that whole stay in one place nonsense. I’ve wanted to leave ever since I learned that there was a whole world out there besides our sleepy town. I mean, I have pretty much no skills. I’m not patient enough to be a farmer or a blacksmith. My brother is though, he’s the town blacksmith. So, hah! I don’t need to feel guilty!

            Yeah, so I’m not coming back until I’m rich and famous, or…something. Well, hey! I’m 15 years old, that’s practically a man. I haven’t told anyone I was leaving, they’d only try to keep me from doing that, so, I’m sneaking off tonight.

            Okay, so I might never come back (so what). I’ll be fine, I will. I won’t miss this house, or my mom, or my bossy brother. I’ll finally be in charge of myself. Only me! No more, “Oh Waldo, what are we going to do with you” or any “You need to work harder! How are you ever going to scratch out a living like that.” Mom has it in her head that as the younger son, I’ll fill Dad’s old job. But that’s not going to happen. I have the complete opposite of the green thumb. In fact, you should call mine the thumb of death. Every I touch DIES. To tell you the truth, my sister is better at farming. Even with the plough. It’s SAD.

            So, enough of that. I’ll make my way, the world is full of opportunities, eh? Well, here I go, I won’t look back, I won’t. I really won’t. I’m not regretting my decision at all. Not one smidgen. Nada.

            …Okay, maybe one peek won’t hurt.