Contemplation Jamz: Everyone can sing.

The night of my high school graduation, I was stabbed in the left arm by my friend Graham. He was drunk, and I was depressed, so when he flipped open that brand new Victorinox- a graduation gift to everyone in my social circle at the time from another friend's well-intentioned parents- and said "I'm gonna cut you", my blithe "Go the fuck ahead" was apparently consent enough to sweep the virgin blade across my body.

It was the parting of the flesh sea. Four inches across and a centimeter deep, the fat tissue around the slash bulged out like a hotdog that's burst from too much time in the microwave. I should have got stitches, but I didn't. Getting an ambulance would have meant police at our booze-liberal party, and being only 17, I knew my folks would want to press charges. Instead, I wrapped my arm in paper towels and duct tape and promptly began drinking. Later that night, after most had passed out or gone home, I properly dressed the wound. Hot water. Antibacterial soap. Hydrogen peroxide. Bacitracin. Gauze. Tape.

Arriving home the next morning, my parents were convinced I'd gone out and gotten a tattoo. It was sharp observation on their part, as I was sure I'd done a great job of hiding my forearm- no easy feat in the summer months. A week had passed when my dad confronted me in my bedroom about the bandage. "I'm not leaving until you show me", he said, and I obliged. He saw, said nothing, and left the room. Soon after, my mom came in with the same demand. The bandage itself, all rust colored and greasy with Neosporin, had been in the garbage since my father left. She too saw, and her eyes welled up a little.

"Oh Dan, Jesus..."

There was an unspoken assumption that I had done this to myself. To be fair, it wouldn't have been that out of character for me at the time. I was taken off of my Lexapro, and put on a combination of the anti-psychotic Zyprexa, and Trileptal, an anti-epileptic sometimes prescribed to treat bipolar disorders. I would take this cocktail for the next 20 months before swearing off psychopharmaceuticals.

I write this not to be morbid, nor to wax nostalgic on the booze addled mistakes of youth. Lord knows I'm still in the throes of those. I write it because it's a pattern of behavior I still see in myself. It's like that bit in Clerks, when Dante tells the story of his shitting in his pants as a kid for fear of making waves with a simple request to use the bathroom. We have our frustrations in life, our embarrassments, and our mistakes. That is to say, we have our fucking lives. But sucking it up, toughing it out, and applying other such gems of gym class logic to convince ourselves that we are burdening the pleasures of others by talking things through or simply being honest only makes one's honest, forgivable mistakes infinitely more pitiful than they ever would have been in the first place.

With every age and every season comes little lessons. This summer's has been the unsubtle reality that when it comes down to it, I'm a much smaller man than my physical self would lead you to believe.

According their press release, Johnny and Oliver of Montreal's Bikini met one another in prep school detention when they were 16.

Bikini "I Remember Being Young"

Bikini "1234" (Feist Cover)

D/L Bikini's Concerning the Number 7 And Your Love EP via their MySpace page, linked above. If that ain't a preamble to a write up, then... you know. Damn. Got a great scar, though.