It's just another story to tell. Every mistake, every accomplishment, every moment, they're all just stories to tell. That's all this is, too.
Moving to Texas, painting my room with a 12 year old, going out with my Aunt every weekend. They're all just stories. That's all life really adds up to, right? A series of adventures put into words, formed in lines and put into a story.

Now I'm going to love those boots even more. They have a story. A story of how a gallon of latex-based paint was spilled right onto them. The brown leather porus and absorbing that white paint as fast as it possibly could. A story of how I stood over the kitchen sink scrubbing them and scrubbing them with as much elbow grease as I could muster up. Those cowboy boots now have gumption (if an inanimate object can possibly have gumption). They have a story. It'll probably continue on tomorrow. Something about how I found a scorpion that had crawled into those stupid boots and I didn't notice until after it stung me that it was in there. Only because it's me...and that would be just my luck. Cross your fingers that doesn't happen, though. It would be a dreadful experience.

Yet a story none-the-less. After all, what kind of a past would something, or someone have, if there wasn't a story behind it?