Tonight, my roommate Turkey and I just finished watching “The Social Network”.
Like average citizens, we waited until opening weekend.
Like average citizens, we bought our tickets and overpriced death accelerators movie snacks.
Like average citizens, I watched a toothless woman shuffle out of the stall I was waiting on tell me there was no more toilet paper we waited on line to use the bathroom after the film was done.
I can’t do it.
The Social Network was f*cking good.
Admittedly, this theater visit was fulled by my love for Justin Timberlake. I returned with much more.
This is the story of the “Mark Zuckerberg Production”, in college at the same time I was. The world’s youngest Billionaire and his closest friend invent a pop culture phenomenon the internet’s coolest stalking device. It attracts the attention of Sean Parker -co-conspirator of Shawn Fanning- the brains behind Napster who went to Northeastern (my f*ckin school) a decade earlier.
Even though I didn’t feel like punching someone in the mouth because I sat still for two hours, the thoughts that had been lurking in my subconscious darted to the forefront.
What the f*ck am I doing?
There I sat.
The wee months of 2004.
Nicole Vazquez‘s Harvard dorm room.
Her 7,000th time hammering me to “Get on Facebook” (then, only open to Boston-area college students and not any f*cking weirdo with an internet connection, a mirror, & a cameraphone) After refusing so much,
on try 7,001 I signed up, and never looked back.
There were no outlandish differences between Mark Zuckerberg and myself. Save his computer programming skills, my mind (minus the 1600 SAT score) works similarly.
It has only been a couple of years since I left college, yet the angst of graduating into an unstable economy still haunts me. For the longest time, I thought I was crystal clear on the career path I’d chosen, having found a love for it while at Northeastern.
Just about all of my work experience has been in this one field and, as you can imagine, going from wanting to do something so bad, then not wanting to do it at all is sh*tty harrowing. It also f*cks with your head. What I do now is not my career. What I have to say about my job is not important. Though I feel I certainly should be farther along in it.
I’m agitated by the rat race of the MTA, the disgusting guys who hang out on corners and ask if I “put lip gloss on them sh*s”, and not being able to find a decent vegetable in a Black neighborhood that hasn’t been soaked in Mazola.
I can’t do it.
I once had dreams of going to law school. This was recently echoed in a conversation with an obnoxious friend by the name of Shane Dayqwanna Lloyd.
He’s in grad school at Brown, learning about lobotomies & how to perform them with chopsticks.
Shane: “Well didn’t you wanna go back to school? All of your friends are back in higher education. Why aren’t you??”
Me: “This is something I need to be sure of before I dig myself deeper into the sh*tter with Sallie Mae. And 3 more years.”
Shane: “Well, you’re not getting any younger. And you’re kinda smart. It’s time for you to move up to the Ivy leagues.”
Of course I can’t immediately think of anything I’d like to do, but I know what I don’t want to be:
-African American Haberdasher
-Anything having anything to do with math, counting, sequences, or even saying numbers
-Anything involving Pee-Wee Herman. Or Fantasia.
Zuckerberg’s character noted he “couldn’t” go back to Caribbean night at Alpha Epsilon Pi.
I can’t do it either.
I have the passion. I have the talent. I have the intelligence. And I want to invent some widely successful & popular sh*t.
There’s something greater I’ve got to get.
As quoted from my (very Jamaican) father to me in our conversation last week:
“Where do I go from here?”