After-school days in elementary, playing in the park: there weren’t very many worries. They were the kind that one can only think about anymore. The potential for fairytales were everywhere.
In high school, I was a fake poet. It drove women away as fast as it might have drawn them in (women hate romance). I was anxious—as could be gleaned from my sporadic but very persistent stutter when I was nervous; god forbid someone asked me my name—I was short, which didn’t help my already timid disposition—hell, I’m still short—and I suffered from a bit of depressive arrogance: everyone was always below me, probably because I was so uncertain of myself, I needed to make everyone else smaller to believe I was so intelligent; I was misunderstood. In other words, I was a typical teenager, in my own way, insofar as certain ways about me were my own.
As college came, I wish I can say I came into my own (but that was only until recently when I started wearing button-down shirts underneath my sweaters; every time before that was a joke). But it also took me awhile. My second year in, I quit the Jazz school (I was a New School brat)—Besides, I didn’t feel much like a musician.
So I began studying sociology—pretentious, mindless drivel. After about a year verbally defecating Marx’s creed, enlisted in the Army and became the editor of conservative magazine American Pigeon.
Now I’m here.