I wrote this piece, which ends (spoiler!) with me getting my first tattoo, for a reading I did on behalf of Vol.1 Brooklyn this winter. It’s short because there were twenty people reading so we all only had a few minutes. After the reading, I thought it would just languish on my desktop for eternity, but then I saw that Emily Gould, author of the newly released And the Heart Says Whatever, was having a contest about getting your first tattoo. I’m not trying to win anything here, but I’m happy to support EG in her quest for world domination, even if it means admitting that I drank a lot in college and also dabbled (ha!) in drugs too.
Oh like you didn’t know.
And now I present:
In 1991 I was an extremely depressed college sophomore. I was drinking a lot because I could, like I had been waiting all my life to drink, as if everything at that exact moment was happening because there was alcohol, and if I could just drink a little bit more it would make it all better. It did not. I hated everyone I went to college with. I was a punk rock girl at a university filled with a bunch of assholes who all ended up working on Wall Street. My only solace in any of this now is that at least I was right all along. Those people did suck.
In the spring I went with my high school friend C to visit another high school friend Nancy at the Jesuit college she went to in San Diego. Nancy slept around a lot but still managed to pull off a nice girl vibe, so she felt like she could be kind of judge-y. C went to art school in New York and had died her hair orange after she started working at Limelight. I wore combat boots and cut off jean shorts. As soon as we hit campus people started making fun of us when we walked by them. Some vacation. If I wanted to be made fun of I could have stayed on my own campus. I was outraged. I couldn’t believe I had asked my parents to pay for this!
C and I took off for a night in our rental car down to Tijuana to see a Screaming Trees/Red Kross show at a place called Iguana’s. While we were driving she handed me a small bag of mushrooms. I had never done any kind of drug before. I was, hilariously, super anti-drug and anti-cigarette. I could consume half a bottle of Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum in an afternoon, but thought pot was for losers and people who smoked were gross. But that night I felt like I had nothing left to lose. I consumed the mushrooms with no fear. I started tripping my face off just after we crossed the border.
Red Kross went on first, and they were awesome. I thought the two brothers who led the band were actually sisters because their hair was so long. I also though their heads were spinning around on their necks. I pretty much just couldn’t get over how much those girls rocked the entire time.
Between sets C and I hung out in the bathroom, which was painted with fluorescent paint. There weren’t a lot of girls at the show, just a bunch of punk rock guys from San Diego. We sat on the floor of the empty bathroom and looked at all the pretty colors. My mind got blown. C, who was studying fashion design, said, “Now you understand me. This is how I see colors all the time.”
The gut-wrenching Screaming Trees went on. So much amazing guitar. I began to slowly realize that if I did not hold on to one hand with the other, my arm would fly off my body. This made it difficult for me to continue drinking. I met a guy at the bar who I immediately, psychically, knew was a recent prison escapee (I knew this because when he smiled, he had gigantic teeth that suddenly transformed into fangs and everyone knows people with fangs just escaped from prison), but also knew that he had a warm heart, and he would be my friend. I offered to buy him a drink if he would hold my hand so that my arm would not fly off my body — and he agreed! People were so much nicer at that show than anywhere else I had been in the last year and a half.
I made out with him later on, in the parking lot outside of my friend Nancy’s college dorm. C made out with his friend in the front seat. Finally the security guard came and busted us. We told Nancy all about it later because we thought it was hilarious and she was so pissed off at us. In fact, our friendship was never the same. The next day C and I went and got tattoos at a tattoo parlor in a strip mall. I remember driving around with the distinct and comforting feeling that everything was going to be ok. And it was.
The moral of the story is: Depressed college sophomores should not be drinking. Drinking is bullshit. They should only be taking mushrooms. Mushrooms are way better for your brain and make you happy.
