Here's one: when I was two we moved to West Vancouver and rented a house at the edge of the woods. The instant my mother wasn't watching me, I'd take off into the woods, following the dog from next door. My mother quickly learned that calling me to come home didn't work--she had to call the dog, and I'd follow it home.
A neighbour reported seeing me and the dog once along the Upper Levels Highway (poor mom).
I still love walking in the woods, and rarely come when called.
Sometimes I wish someone reliable would tuck me into bed and tell me the story of my life." (William S. Wilson, Birthplace, as quoted in my second book of poems, Spells for Clear Vision)
Feel free to tell me a story about myself. It doesn't have to be true.