Today, I celebrate four years of personal writing on the web. Some of you have read me since the very first day, others have only learned of me recently. And many of you have probably never been here before. Any which way, I feel that now is the time for me to confess my one big secret to you all.
I am, in fact, a 38 year old Caucasian male originally from the suburbs of New Jersey. So, how did I end up in this predicament? Well, it stems back to a chain of events that took place at the end of 1997. In October, my wife left me for our gardener. He was 23 and spoke three words of English. But apparently he had something big that my wife found interest in. She took the kids, the house, and everything else just short of my imagination.
In December, I lost my job as the lyricist for an up and coming rap group from the Upper West Side. The group, consisting of three Abercrombie & Fitch youths whose parents had all graduated from Columbia, found my writing to be too tame. Apparently, “you looked hot that nite when u said what’s up / so like muhammad ali, i knocked you up / butcha kno im a brotha and i keep it tight / which is why im there for ya day and night” failed to reflect the level of anger they felt towards their parents for offering them Beamers on their 16th birthdays and towards society in general.
As 1998 fell upon my lone and depressed shoulders, I started living through others. I read people’s online journals and contemporary fiction that would further develop my understanding of our social culture. And then on the 18th of January, several empty cans of Dr. Pepper and the aural sensations of Pink Floyd inspired me to start a truly experimental journal called Obsidian in Amber. It was the beginning of something truly phenomenal that gave meaning to my life. I started living through a modern concoction of sorts: Someone darker, taller, skinnier, younger. Rahat Ahmed. He was the medium through which I explored the years that I had lost in my own youth. It did some sort of a rejuvenation trick. For the first time in a while, I felt alive.
Four years have passed and a lot of things have changed. Two years ago, something surreal happened. Remember the gardener my wife married? Well, he won approximately $77.6 million in the lottery. And so my wife, who had seemingly carried a level of guilt for leaving me so abruptly, donated $10 million to me as a sign of, “Please forgive me, I’m not as much of a bitch as you think.” I forgave, for Benjamin Franklin has the ability to heal. With that money, I transformed myself, through myriad operations, medications and therapy into who I am now: 6’0″, age 20 and attending college at New York University.
James Bond says, “You only live twice.” I’m on my second roll as we speak. Let’s make sure I make the best of it, no?
Thank you for reading. Without you, this wouldn’t exist.