I am right, you are wrong.

            From infancy to the present, being wrong has never been an option. If I had an answer, it had to be right. No one could change my opinion. If one tried to defy my view, I would shoot them down with my intellect. I made sure that they knew I was right, and they were wrong. This characteristic has often led me to look a fool.

            My brother and I are close at heart, but we do have our differences. My brother was always the type to be organized and to have a schedule, while my lazy self could care less to be neat. I was always “right” anyways. We may have been at odds with our views, yet we did share a bedroom. The room we shared was neat and organized to my brother’s preferences. Once 1999 came along, our family decided to move. I was finally achieving a lifelong dream of sustaining some sort of privacy. The move was smooth, and I finally got my own room. My brother kept on telling me to keep my things together so I would not lose anything important. Obviously, I did not listen. It was my way or the highway. He persisted to tell me to clean myself up, or that I would regret it. The threat seemed harmless.

            A month into living in my room, it was a disaster. I remember not seeing any part of my rug for a long time due to the huge clutter of papers and clothes on the ground. I would not be able to find anything in my dump. My brother would come in and say, “I told you so,” which completely irked me. I could not argue for I was a mess.