Today is the first day that I am sitting at my desk since I
have graduated college. Until now, my laptop has resided exclusively on the
small, black, ottoman next my bed since May, and the chair next to my desk has
held more jackets than asses.
My
desk was purchased at IKEA, and when it was first assembled, it looked very
nice and complimented my room. Years later, my desk has been somewhat worn
down. It is covered in scratches from Tech Decks and the paint at the end,
where I rest my right arm, has peeled off little by little. Underneath an orgy
of scratch marks, the name “Gina” can still be made out next to the gash I put
in my desk with the knife I disposed of in the street one night when I was high
and nervous about what I would do with it if I ever came across her boyfriend.
There are some burn marks from where I would light tape on fire, or let some
lighter fluid leak onto my desk before I would ignite it.
My
desk is littered with mementos from life, things that almost killed me, and
things that have defined me. At the head of my desk is blink-182’s “Enema of
the State,” the first CD I ever purchased and the reason I play Pop-Punk. Next
to that is “…but I have to,” which I consider the most important music I have
written so far. On the other end of the desk are the two bottles of Brooklyn
Local, 1 and 2, the last thing I drank before I began a life changing diet that
literally postponed my death.
The
windowsill that overlooks my elementary school bus stop holds the plastic
mouthpiece I inhaled at Kasbah, and the nose of my first longboard that sent my
hurling toward the pavement so many times. They sit next to the breast cancer
awareness bracelet that I bought when I found out my mothers diagnosis and the
“Wake Up, East Meadow” bracelet I bought to remind me of all the friends I lost
to heroine and pills. And in a Hofstra shot glass is the only jewelry I own.
The bracelet I wear to funerals and two necklaces, one with the words “Love
Monica” engraved on the back.
The
corkboard that surrounds my window proudly displays the Calvary Show flyer that
Valet Parking opened the day before my 14th birthday. Next to that
is the joker card I received at a Theatre Guild function even though I didn’t
earn or deserve it. Right below that is the napkin that the stripper from Le
Café wrote her number on and gave to me while she smoked cigarettes in the woman’s
bathroom and told me how her boyfriend beat her. And underneath that is the New
York Giants Christmas stocking that CJ gave to me that holds the Polaroid’s and
the notes that Eileen has given to me. On the other side is the plate that
Grambo drew my face on at Fawn’s BBQ along with this weird pin that I stole
from Real Sports in Toronto. And there are my spare set of car keys, still bent
and scratched from when they got caught underneath a skateboard while my
friends and I were human bowling in front of Stef’s house.
I guess my desk says a lot about me.
At
the end of my last semester in college, I wrote a piece for my Narrative Voice
class that explained, for the most part, why I was so quiet during my time at
Hofstra. I could give a large summary, or even rewrite the entire thing, but I
feel this excerpt from the conclusion pretty much sums up the entire piece
nicely:
“For most people, puberty is the most awkward period of time
in their life. For me, it was college. For the first time in my 22 years of
existence, I found myself unwilling to invite people into my life out of fear
that I was going to come off as a condescending fuck if I let anyone know that
I tour the country in a band that is starting to gain recognition on and off of
Long Island.”
After
I presented this piece, my professor asked me to stay after class to talk to
me, and ultimately what she told me was to not be afraid to write about myself.
She told me that I have a story to tell and that I shouldn’t allow the fear of
being labeled a narcissist interfere with telling it.
So what did I do with that advice? I took my laptop that was
surrounded by stories of my life and moved it across my room to become an
exclusive gateway for virtual sex.
Besides
one instance when I wrote a long and winded message to this girl Julie about
reconciling our friendship, I had pretty much abstained from writing anything
of substance until the other day. Kevin Burke had posted some “article” by some
clown who rambled on about how chivalry is dead. I promptly whipped up a
rebuttal and posted it, and it felt good. It felt good to finally write
something not just for people to read, but also for myself. For a moment I had
stopped giving a shit about how people would react to what I had to say, and I
just said it.
I
spent a lot of time post-graduation feeling numb. I would read articles online,
posts on twitter and statues on facebook that I would completely disagree with
and just keep my opinion to myself because I didn’t want to feed the fire. So I
stayed silent, like I did in college, and I can say now that I have had a
taste, I’m pretty much done reaming quiet.
This
post is my declaration, to myself, that I will take my English Degree and do
something with it, even if that something is posting on this blog. I do have a
story to tell, and it is damn interesting.
Back
in high school, in one night, I wrote out the story of my life on Live Journal.
It was rushed and lacked substance. It was pretty much just a list of cool
things I had done up until that point in my life. A lot of people read it, and
a lot of people liked it. This is going to be my revision to that. Every week,
for the next few months or so, I am going to try and post a different story
from my life. I hope that if this interested you enough, you’ll come back and
check them out, and I hope that you will enjoy them. But at the end of the day,
and as cliché as this sounds, I am going to be writing for myself.
See you in a week.
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