First, and this is really important, start hemming your shirts. That Paramore sized medium? Take it in an inch. I know. I know. They only had medium because everyone shopping at Hot Topic is either a twink or a twinkie. You don’t need to tell me. I get it.
Next, the pants. I’m afraid there’s no good advice here. Hang on to what you’ve got. Finding a good pair is harder than first-period chemistry. I know. I know. If only you didn’t have stilts for legs. But you’ll find some, and you’ll wear them until they’re more hole than jean. It’s cooler that way anyway. At least, I know that’s what you tell yourself.
You want to fit in.
You want that graphic shirt to fall exactly halfway down the fly of your zipper and tight enough to show the studs on your belt. The safety pins help, but nothing ever sits right. You lose your shape. You buy skateboarding shoes to try and tie things together, but you can’t even ride switch.
You want to stand out.
You want to dye your hair orange like Hayley Williams, or cut it short like Gerard Way. Everyone at their shows are more unique than you: gauges that can hold a bike lock, tattoos of crescent moons that look like devil horns, iron-on patches with crooked band names. You tell yourself you need to go back to Hot Topic soon, find those patches. You bend a staple into your lip and consider getting it pierced.
You want to fit in.
The music is clear. Metaphorically. With your ear next to the PA, the bass guitar shakes your temporal lobe and washes out Davey Havok’s voice. No words. Just screaming. But it speaks to you anyway. All of them do. Chiodos? Asking Alexandria? Crashing cymbals and stinging snares beat something into you. Aiden? Silverstein? You’re alone in the mosh pit. Relentless Nirvana. This is what you wanted.
You wanted to stand out.
That brings us to three, and don’t ever forget this, you suck at singing. The writing, we can work with. But your voice? Leave it on the page. I know you want to move people like other artists have moved you. You want to write something so personal that everyone else thinks it’s about them. You try this by writing songs that sound like Bright Eyes and Never Shout Never. But all you end up with are lyrics like: “I’m fucking my pain for pleasure” or “We all just need a hug.”
We all start somewhere.
The cigarettes help. The pot helps. The hit of blotter acid some stoner in a sherpa hat gave you? That helps too. You stop wearing socks so you can show off your yin-yang tattoo. You start wearing tank-tops with designs of anchors and dream catchers. Books like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and The Doors of Perception stack up in your dorm room. You don’t read them, but you make sure the spine’s face outwards so other people can see.
You want to fit in.
You start quoting Nietzsche and Nine Inch Nails but won’t let God stay dead. Holes rip into your pants each time you kneel down and say things like: I promise I’ll go back to church if you get me out of this K-hole or Fuck you for making me this way. The upstairs neighbors file complaints because you smoke cigarettes inside and cry like a coyote. You start putting a lot more curse words into your writing.
You want to stand out.
The heroin? The meth? They help. They help until they don’t. They disguise you in clouds of smoke that don’t even look like anything. But even if they did, who’s going to see you way up there in that fifth floor apartment anyway? Who’s going to see all the new holes in your jeans. You aren’t Layne Staley. You aren’t Elliott Smith. You aren’t Nikki Sixx, or Lou Reed. No matter how many Yamah FG 730s you buy. No matter how much dope you consume.
No matter how much you want to fit in.
If I were you, and I really mean this, stick with the diminished chords. There’s something new there. Who knows if it’s good, but at least it’s unique. I know. I know. You don’t like it. It doesn’t sound like Neutral Milk Hotel or Jeff Buckley. It sounds like you threw your Shure SM58 into the garbage disposal and shoved your hand in after it. Keep stitching. Everything you love about yourself, you once hated.
And you really want to stand out.
You want to wear a mohawk to your first job interview. You want to say things like: The binary artifacts I built will only run on x86 systems or I shaved 45 minutes off development time by implementing this design pattern. You want to say these things while wearing a Slayer sweatshirt. Your Yamah FG 730 is visible during Zoom calls, but the Art is Hard baseball cap hanging from the headstock is not.
Lastly, and I can’t stress this enough, you haven’t hemmed a shirt since before you were sober, since before you were even a drug addict, since before you went to your first concert and wore high tops. Now, things fit or they don’t fit. Your writing works or it doesn’t work. And that’s that. Things fall apart, but somehow, they keep finding ways back together. Keep stitching. Keep tailoring. That’s what I’d do.
But I’m not you. Not exactly.