English Class and Depression-Related Issues
I couldn’t help but think of the show when I was in English class. Maybe it had to do with the teacher, or the students, hell, maybe even the size or shape of the classroom. It was normal size, and after all these years of school, it didn’t appear either large or small, because I had gotten so used to the occurrence of those friggin’ rooms that to describe them would be near impossible. Anyways, the teacher was one of those non-boring, out-there teachers with way more character and likeability to them than the common instructor. He wasn’t boring, or slow, but he was very personal, and liked connecting with his students. We had this thing that every time we took a Vocab quiz, we would have to write something about ourselves on the back of the paper, like what our favorite food or movie was, and he read them aloud in front of the class. So in part, both he and the entire class understood each other more and more. But when he asked me what my favorite show was, I was stumped. I was leaning towards Neon Genesis: Evangelion, this deconstructed mech anime that came out in ‘95, with religious symbolism and great storytelling. But the thing about Evangelion is that it’s neither popular or widely accepted as a classic. And the fact that it’s an anime doesn’t help that in the slightest; and even for those who have watched it, there are those who don’t view it as a masterpiece, or even as a really good show. They downright hate it. I think it’s because it makes no sense to them, or they would rather watch something with less complex characters and immersive elements. But it’s always their opinion, just like mine, that determines whether it’s good or bad. And that has really divided its viewers over it. It still divides its viewers over it. I digress; I wanted to put Evangelion, but then a thousand other suggestions came forth. I thought of not putting it down because I would have looked like a total Otaku or hipster, or something like that, in front of all those 30 or more students and the one teacher that I legitimately respected. That was when I thought of Friendship is Magic. Of course I didn’t put it down...but what if I had? I began thinking out scenarios that the teacher’s familiar voice says the words “My Little Pony”, and I had to justify it somehow. It made me cringe and grin at the same time because of how awkward it would have been for everyone. I knew I wasn’t the only one, too. There were those in my grade that practically worshipped the show. You would have died listening to the morning announcements over the speakers, and hearing about “Friendship” club at High School lunch. It was so creepy and hilarious that I almost did write down that show. Instead, I just said Evangelion. It’s easier to justify that than that other show.
My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. Now normally a sane individual would back away slowly from that kind of brand in a Toys R Us store. But I kind of lean towards it. No, I’m not a totally devout brony, or even a labeled individual. I prefer to be a fan of every fanbase; it’s the only way I can avoid the stereotypical argument over a YouTube video’s comment section. The reason why I was so attached to it is because it came out at a very dark time in my life. A lot of my family members died, including my younger brother, Alex. He was a great brother. He was actually interested in the show until he got leukemia and died in the time span of five months. I can proudly say he’s the reason why I got interested in that friggin’ show. He would not stop going on about how loveable it was. I said I would give it a try, when he was in the hospital. He kept asking me who my favorite pony was. “Who is it, Lance?” he kept saying to me. I kept laughing at how persistent he was at makin me like him. I didn’t stop him. I watched the entire show, beginning to end (or rather as current as one could be), and we had one whole discussion about the experience. The question kept coming up, “Who is it, Lance?”, over and over again. Laughter ensued every god-damn time. I swear he was a very persistent kid. But I couldn’t answer him. I said one or two names, and he knew I was just faking the affection. He wanted to know who I liked the most from that show, and I never got the chance to tell him. When he died, no one let me go to the funeral. I was just admitted into the same hospital, the exact same room he was in. They said I had psychoanalytical interference in my brain, maybe because I threw a fit while I was sleeping the night after my own little brother died. I unintentionally kept yelling his name into the bed sheets, cursing over and over into my pillow. I then broke the bed after kicking it over and over again, until the beams came apart. I also broke my leg doing it, so I was also in the hospital for that. Even my parents didn’t look at me the right way for several weeks. About three or four months later, they found out I had been a big fan of the show ever since Alex died. They brought me back into the hospital, for more psychoanalysis. My parents never really understood me. That’s why I kind of distance myself from them. They’re too old, too stagnant. They don’t get it. They don’t get me.
I ended up getting a B+ in English, maybe because I stopped caring about the class seven weeks in. I usually did that for my classes. Anyways, I got the report card two weeks after the semester ended. My lowest grade was a B+. Figures.
A lot of people call me a genius. I think I’m pretty fucked up, to be honest. A year after Alex died, I started clopping to My Little Pony. Clopping; what a silly friggin’ name. My parents never figured out; I graduated high school the same year, and went on my way to UCLA, only a few hours drive from my home in Thousand Oaks. I had been fantasizing about going to UCLA since my trainwreck years of middle school. The thing about UCLA is that it isn’t a school like Harvard where it’s specified what exactly you may become when you graduate. UCLA is a well-rounded university. And I liked that; even after I graduated high school, I didn’t really know what to do with my life. Was I gonna be an artist? An author? A musician? I didn’t know. I needed a school to teach me what I can be good at and when I could begin. So I heard about UCLA, and after some stupid years in a high school, I came onto the UCLA campus as a student and not a visitor (as I had been beforehand). It was pretty exciting, actually. First time in a while that I felt assurance, like someone was watching over me.
I brought little things to my dorm; clothes, bed sheets, a pillow, a fan, a laptop, and school supplies my parents had bought me. They asked if I wanted to bring anything else. I said no. It was too risky bringing anything to college; someone was just gonna wreck it anyways. Might as well bring some dispensable items (it was a decent laptop).
The first thing that came into my mind was my roommate. I didn’t know if I was getting one or not, but when I did get into the room, I saw an opened window and a Minecraft poster taped onto the right wall. The room itself was almost completely empty, save some beds and some indentations in the walls. Hopefully someone was gonna help me do something about the blandness of it all. I wondered who the guy was gonna be. Was he a furry or something like that? Maybe a brony? I wasn’t entirely sure. The Minecraft poster did scare me a bit, though; I hated that game a lot. All my friends used to play it, and then college applications became the newest thing, and you know. I don’t find it as fun as it should be, but again, I digress. I put my stuff down on the back wall, facing the window, where you could see a bunch of guys having the time of their friggin’ lives; playing on their laptops, listening to music, doing homework, studying, playing football and soccer, all that good stuff. It got me pumped for what my future was gonna be like at this new school.
I heard someone walk by outside the room’s door. It wasn’t my roommate. It was just someone on their phone, probably talking to their parents. I should have called my parents. They should have known that I got there okay, before anything conspicuous happened on campus and they suspected I was involved. I ended up not calling them, mostly because I had classes to begin and people to meet, places to see, you know. I inspected the very corners of the room; I saw a lot of cracks and bruises on the ceiling, probably from the last owner’s late-night parties. Thank god I didn’t hear any pop music playing on my floor, I would have gone insane listening to that young shit.
Then my actual roommate comes to the door. He’s carrying a suitcase, probably filled with clothes. I can see his dyed dark blue hair, spiky and kind of rugged. He wore a black t-shirt and some normal blue jeans, and he begins talking to me like I’m his buddy or something. He grunts, “Help me with this, eh?” I oblige, coming to his aid, picking up the box in its entirety, putting it on the ground, next to my luggage on the side of the wall. I get a better look at him; he’s slightly taller than I am, with brown eyes and one hell of a good smile. He had a rough beard, and a skinny complexion. “Thanks, man.” he says before approaching me. “My name’s Keith.”
“Lance.” I respond, shaking his hand.
“So,” he begins. “You’re the roommate?” he asked me. I nodded in return.
“Yeah, I was just checking out the room...”
“Sucks, doesn’t it?” he points out to me. He was right, it did need some improvement. But I kind of hated it when people used ‘sucks’ in their sentences when it makes no sense. Like, what does it suck? Is that some perverted way of saying hello? He looked around room with a disgusted look on his face. “Hey, man, don’t worry, I got a friend in the restoration biz. He can do something about this.”
“It’s fine, really, I don’t mind it.”
“Nah, man, don’t you worry ‘bout it.” he assures me. “Hey, you got anymore?” he gestures to my only stuff in the room.
“Oh, no, that’s all I brought with me.” I answered. He looked at me with disbelief. I could almost read his friggin’ mind. He was probably asking himself “Really?” I probably should have socked him for that if he ever said it.
“...really?”
I lied.
“Yeah. I mean, it is college, it’s gonna break anyway.”
“True, dude. Hey, I’m gonna go get the rest of my things, you wanna set up yours?” he started acting like that whole awkward moment never happened. People tend to do that with me.
“Sure, sure.” I replied innocently.
He then begins walking out the doorway, but then he looks back at me and says, “Hey, I forgot to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“My friends usually call me Vinyl, so, just to keep the energy flowing...”
My heart skipped a beat for a moment. Like, borderline exploded. His nickname was Vinyl. His real name was Keith. My god, there was so much misconceptualization in the assignment of that nickname...Vinyl. Was he a brony? Jesus, who decided to call him that?
“...Vinyl?”
“Yeah, Vinyl.”
“...why Vinyl?”
“Dude, my car’s trunk is literally open right now.”
“Okay, okay, do your thing.” I said, smiling at the same time. What a funny nickname. Who in the hell thought that up? Was it his friend? Or was it himself? I couldn’t stop thinking about that friggin’ nickname. It was so out of place. Like something decided to wave what I left behind in front of my face. My smile degraded. I just began unpacking my things, hearing Keith’s footsteps fade into silence.
“...Vinyl.” I chuckled. What a funny nickname.
