Nonfiction
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This essay was published in Malocclusion: A Post-Bimaxillary Osteotomy Nonfiction Journal, which can be found here
In my mind, there are two distinct versions of myself separated by mind and body. As far as the mind is concerned we have Victor II, the current rendition that exists today, and then the Victor that looked into the mirror nine years ago: Victor I. Victor I, birthed of shame and anxiety, exists as a foil to the pride and perfectionism of Victor II. They represent themselves with fear and insecurity, dysmorphia and dysphoria. I’ve lost many years of my life to them, passed over many opportunities. My memories of living as Victor I are hazy unclear, and suppressed. In some ways, parts of Victor I remain inside of me. Upon looking into a mirror, I sometimes see the body of Victor II through the mind of Victor I, not recognizing my form.
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This essay was originally published February 19th, 2018 and was re-published in Malocclusion: A Post-Bimaxillary Osteotomy Nonfiction Journal, which can be found here
Running from friends. Running from life. Running from family. No matter where I go, I can’t escape. Running from anxiety. Running from reality. Running from my future career. I’ve never been much of an athlete. My legs and my lungs are always in competition of what will give first. Running from my desires, because I felt like I was never worth them. Running from my needs, because other peoples’ were more important. Running is pointless and exhausting. Trying to justify why you’re running is almost as bad as the act of running itself.
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This essay was published in Malocclusion: A Post-Bimaxillary Osteotomy Nonfiction Journal, which can be found here
“ My mouth was sewn up ” Upon waking up from my surgery, The first thing I noticed was how much I didn’t feel. Everything was numb and bloated. Uncomfortable, but not painful. The second thing I noticed was that I could not open my jaw. Strong elastic bands were attached to the surgical hooks on my braces. The only thing that could force my teeth apart was the strong convulsions that came with me vomiting blood all over myself while resting on my hospital bed. My lips were swollen as if my surgeon bundled in a botox injection with my double jaw surgery.
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This essay was published in Malocclusion: A Post-Bimaxillary Osteotomy Nonfiction Journal, which can be found here
Body Memory I remember looking through the cold, empty room. Posters plastered the walls, and stickers lined the desks. I scanned through documents and browsed through files, looking for anything of interest on the events that transpired before my arrival. Amongst the mess, I found packets of macaroni and cheese, a pair of panties, and signs of a herculean effort to keep a college radio station running to the best of its ability. There was a constant effort to keep the dying art of radio alive, and eventually it all came crashing down.
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This essay was published in Malocclusion: A Post-Bimaxillary Osteotomy Nonfiction Journal, which can be found here
To write creative nonfiction is to let yourself be vulnerable. You lay bare scars that are otherwise invisible, bring out painful memories that would rather be forgotten. Fashion, conversely, focuses on exclusivity and subtly. Fashion exists to hide and act while communicating silently, if at all. As such, finding creative nonfiction on the topic of fashion is nontrivial, and I spent a lot of time searching until I found myself on the homepage of Vestoj.com. The design stood out to me from traditional fashion related websites: it had a simple, ad-free layout. There was a large focus on the text with sparse yet impactful photography, and every article had a diverse set of sources.
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This essay was published in Malocclusion: A Post-Bimaxillary Osteotomy Nonfiction Journal, which can be found here
In a moment I was awake, stomach-churning and head drooping. Knowing what was coming, I frantically felt around for the phone remote in the half-lit intensive care unit. Then it came: blood. So much blood. Leaking through the gaps in my bound together teeth, filling the cold room with a vaguely metallic stench. I could do nothing but lurch and heave as it fell onto my hospital blanket. There was no chance to reach for the suction tube on my left; I gripped tightly to the rails of the hospital bed every time my jaw convulsed and ejected blood.
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Written somewhere on the walls of U92’s DJ staff area is the phrase “College radio is dying, friends are forever.” While I regret to quote the person that uttered it, it remains an unfortunate reality that those in positions of power must confront. WWVU-FM is not an exception. Over one and a half years I associated myself with the station, I searched for a solution. There isn’t one.
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For as long as I can remember, I’ve found the smell of cigarettes comforting. In the far reaches of my memory are scenes of my grandfather’s kitchen, where I sat waiting for him while he was out on the porch. The door opens as someone enters the house, and I catch the ethereal scent of cigarette smoke as the door quickly closes behind them. I don’t have a particularly close connection to my grandfather, or even his house for that matter. Nonetheless, any time I notice the smell, it brings a wave of comfort and pleasant feelings.
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There isn’t enough room in this fucking town. Too many cars on the road, too many people in the streets. Too many bad landlords and musty clubs. Too many deadbeat townies and entitled students. Everyone has an opinion of Morgantown: it’s rusty, it’s dusty. It’s too boring, it’s too wild. It’s hard to pin down what exactly Morgantown is to the diverse set of people that inhabit it. That being said, this town is an intersection, a rest stop, for so many people. Morgantown is never really an intentional destination. You always just “end up” there for one reason or another. How did I end up here, in this small town packed to the brim?
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The better the medicine, the more frequent the usage. As usage increases, the urge to increase dosage arises, and addiction settles. This is how addiction works in my mind, though I’m sure the reality doesn’t match up to my own perception. When I think of apathy, I consider it in the same way that I consider my bullshit theory for addiction. Apathy is needed in small doses; you can’t care about everything, to try is a fruitless and maddening task. In the same vein, caring about nothing is as equally as terrible. Apathy breeds sloth and sloth breeds the other ‘a’: atrophy. I of course, say these things with the same ignorant confidence that I present my “addiction theory,” however in my own experiences this is what I’ve found to be true.
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There is a place, hidden in plain sight. Chances are, if you attend or have attended West Virginia University, you have walked by it. Nestled deep inside the student union, there lies a wall of glass, and on the glass the U92 logo proudly rests. This is the college radio station; the source of Morgantown’s only alternative programming, and more importantly: one of my many homes.
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As I’ve become more and more experienced as a programmer, one thing has abundantly clear: the less time you spend writing code, the better. Much like writing a book, if you just hop on your computer and start typing, you’ll eventually find yourself tangled in your own work, making something that is more or less impossible to work with. If you chose to continue working on the same poor foundation, more and more time will be spent dedicated to solving problems that you caused, that could have easily been prevent. It is because of this that the majority of my time is spent carefully deciphering what the problem is and planning out how I will solve it.
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It was another classic day in Morgantown. Cold enough to require a jacket, and hot enough to sweat in one. As I awoke from my light nap, I felt the thick humidity of the air as my shirt stuck to parts of my chest. Groggily, I went over to the kitchen and started the tea kettle for my evening coffee. It was around six in the evening, and I was following the usual thursday routine: go to class, take a nap, and head over to my college’s radio station to prepare for the five hours of music. This time however, I was adding a step. Nick Flynn was doing a reading in the downtown library, and it just so happened that it fit perfectly into my schedule. The little exposure I had of Flynn’s work impressed me, and there was no real reason not to go.
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It was early October in the very recent year 2017, and I was standing at the PRT station thinking. The thoughts consumed me, sharply dulling all of my senses. Though the thoughts were focusing on a very bad thing, I strangely felt a neutral feeling while I unpacked each and every one of them.
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In modern American society, there’s always this notation of forward motion. As it stands, we as a country are always “pressing the gas” for better or for worse. If you aren’t moving forward, you are a waste of space. You are left behind. You are forgotten. My hometown is not exempt from these suffocating societal bindings. My hometown has never stopped growing and expanding. Every time I come back from a semester of college, another Starbucks has opened up. Commutes take an additional 5 minutes. Housing values rise by a huge factor. The closest grocery store has once again been bought out and remodeled.
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It was the late afternoon, a Tuesday if I recall. I was sitting down with a hot cup of coffee after a day of classes. I’ve done this routine many times before. Sit down, study a bit, maybe get a refill or two, leave. While working on whatever particularly needed to get done that day, a conversation or two might catch my attention. It is a coffee shop after all, and people either sit down to chat or to work. The conversation topics are mostly mundane, but two men caught my attention through the soft music and light mummering of conversation.
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The memory is faint, and very old. What it lacks in substance it makes up for with the very visceral senses and feelings. It’s an insignificant memory, mundane even. I am very young, living in the countryside of northern New York. The aroma of sawdust filled the room prominently, for reasons that are unknown and quite frankly not relevant. Lying down on my bed next to the sunny window, I have a book in hand. With the only source of light in the room being the window, I lean in, lazily reading a novel while a subtle, but relentless pounding fills my head. The pounding is restrictive, and only highlights my unfortunate situation: I am trapped in this room.
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