Here’s a short personal narrative that I wrote for my writing class…blah blah blah whatever just read it okay thanks. You’re pretty.
It was October of my sophomore year. I received a call from my friend Stefanie. She was back from college in Japan and was coming to UCSD for a concert. She wanted to know if I could join her.
Stefanie was one of my closest friends in junior high. She and I were the only “punks” at our small, private Christian school in Upland, California. And by “punks”, I mean Avril-Lavigne wannabes. We wore black Dickies, band shirts, our mom’s liquid eyeliner and “nobody understood us”. To be fair, she was actually a lot more genuine than I was. Stef actually listened to punk rock, shopped at thrift-stores and only pretended to like Hot Topic when I was with her.
While we went to different high schools, we remained friends. This was before Myspace and Facebook. It was before I had a cell phone, internet that didn’t tie up the phone lines, and social skills. Our freshman year of high school we kept in touch through a blue spiral-bound notebook that we would take turns writing and drawing in. It would then be exchanged at our weekly “Rock Shop” practices*.
I had almost forgotten about this notebook, but Stefanie had the foresight to bring it with her that October. As I leafed through it for the first time in six years, skimming all that I wrote and drew, I realized three things about myself at the age of fourteen. The first was that I was a huge nerd, as evidenced by literally everything that I wrote. The second thing I learned was that my number one fantasy was the actualization of a Queen cover band comprised entirely of kittens (this was a reoccurring theme in my drawings). The third was that I hated geometry. I gathered this from the fact that I began every note with the line “I hate geometry”. Apparently, I also thought that it was dumb and boring. This memory came back to me the year I decided to become a math major.
*Rock Shop was a program offered by the local music shop where teenagers could form a “band” and be taught how to play cover songs by thirty year old music teachers. Stef played guitar, I played bass and a random chick from Fontana played the drums. After about ten weeks of practice, the program culminated in a daytime performance at a local dive bar where I sang “Day Tripper” to my parents and a motorcycle gang.