My First Everything – plasticbagger

March 28, 2025

the girl from Far Rock tugged her septum piercing. we sat in a little circle of benches. it was across the street from a laundromat. the bright red ‘Lucky Wash’ storefront was glowing, adding a splash of color to an otherwise gray street. “this is so annoying,” she said, pulling at the anchor-shaped metal between her nostrils. those types of piercings looked dumb, though i said it looked nice on her. i was happy to be reacquainted. two years after graduating high school, that part of life already disintegrated. no friendship survived. besides enrolling in community college, i hadn’t decided what to do. since leaving 12th grade, i’d lost a hundred pounds. i could wear tight jeans now. they were in style. i wanted that to be acknowledged by someone who knew me when i had three chins. when the girl from Far Rock noticed me, by the deli advertising cold beer and hot sandwiches, she burst into those “oh my god’s” and “you look so different’s” i’d been craving. was change really change if there was no one around to notice? 

my only picture on social media was of a random Indian man. selfies made me self conscious. i’d used that profile to keep tabs on past acquaintances. my gay class clown acquaintance was dating a white woman. the bass player who dropped out senior year became a communist. that weed rapper spiraled into homeless schizophrenia. the dude who came to class with a pink fox tail stuck to his jeans was interning at a missile defense company. now that we weren’t locked in together, teenage pals and enemies alike drifted into different crowds, scattering across the city, even into other states. they groomed themselves in novel ways, experimented with different wardrobes. some overdosed. others posted moments their groups thought were iconic. new faces trickled into these photos. slowly morphing those i knew into an unrecognizable crowd. my fingers twitched. i spent hours hunched over. scrolling.

the girl from Far Rock constantly deleted, then re-made her accounts. since our break up, i’d accepted seven or eight friend requests. her physical appearance changed each profile. from the senior i dated as a junior with her tease damaged hair and winged eyeliner. to the denim jacket wearing feminist with a shaved head. to a short stint of her being into skateboards and popular streetwear brands. i never knew how these transformations happened, but each version lasted around three weeks. after that, the flow of comments saying she looked better than ever slowed down. then suddenly gone. nowhere online. until i received another notification. did i even know her enough still to send a message? i could just keep watching. wondering which skin she’d wear next. but, when i got the nerve to reach out, i couldn’t think of what to say, always missing my window of opportunity by trying to craft a perfect DM. 

her latest profile picture was a selfie taken slightly below the chin. with a fuzzy laptop camera not meant for taking photos in the dark. she was forcing a little smile in it, but everyone else on the Internet did too. most girls, even dudes, wouldn’t upload a picture taken from that angle. it made faces look chubbier than they really were. she was brave. the makeup she wore was also very subtle, only accentuating her eyes a bit, adding color to her cheeks. there were no skateboards in the background. her hair grew back to being the long length it was while we were together. all those hammer-and-sickle pins must’ve been stashed in a drawer. her white t-shirt had a curled collar. the space behind her was bare as well, a perfect canvas for the silhouette cast by her computer’s backlight. she hadn’t gotten that piercing yet. the girl from Far Rock was alone in every upload. i either got butterflies, or an upset stomach from my medication. 

she was my first everything. the first girl i’d bought flowers for. walking around a book store with that bouquet, window shopping to pass time; she’d found and snuck up on me. i yelped, knocking over a stack of manga with those roses. that was a warm memory. we started off at the back of an astronomy class, making dumb jokes about the disabled kid, quoting YouTube Poop, and trying to gross each other out with descriptions of pus, gore and microwaved babies. over the course of that semester, the bell mattered less and less. we kept talking into the hallways; before long, we were taking the train together. my first kiss happened on the musty station near school. the girl from Far was more experienced. she pressed me into the yellowing platform tiles, putting her lips on mine, using her tongue to spread them open. i had a muffin top and still came in my underwear. i liked how she took the lead. she put her hand in mine. she pulled my arm over her shoulder. she was the one who said we shouldn’t wear a condom. she suggested we pool our money together for the pill. if it weren’t for bills, i didn’t mind being a teen dad. the girl from Far Rock was the first person to make me feel like i could be something. when you get roasted for your bitch tits every day, it feels like it’s truly over.

beyond class i didn’t make an effort with friendships. i liked cracking jokes at the bakery with soggy pastries. or being in the computer lab, replaying the same videos then remixing them aloud to each other. yet there was only so much of that i could take. i enjoyed being alone. huddled over a bag of cheesy chips, losing grip on reality with each flick of the joystick. sniping heads across the world in multiplayer. followed by a round of jacking off – made better when i learned the joy of my imagination. those two hours of solitude before my mom came home. washing them down with an orange soda. the girl from Far Rock was the first one i wanted to give that time up for. sweating through the straps of my backpack, we’d roam the streets, holding hands, listening to different music on separate headphones, swinging in random parks. the metal chains would rattle, “when i graduate, i’m gonna get a tattoo of a bird flying out of a cage,” she said, pushing her seat off the ground. i thought that was stupid and generic but to be romantic said that was cool, then told her she looked pretty in the moonlight. “that’s retarded and gay.” i was a bit hurt, but started to smirk when i heard her snickering. i’d never wanted a tattoo.

and as gay as it might’ve sounded, i liked holding doors for her. i liked spending my meager allowance on cheap Chinese meals after her weekly therapy. when a group of teens ganged up on us at a park, with vague threats of weapons in their pockets, i put the biggest of them in a headlock and kept punching him in the head. his friends jumped in quick. they beat the shit out of me. in all that commotion they left the girl from Far Rock’s pricey MP3 player on the grass. she really liked that thing. and it was me, this fat retard with serial killer eyes and no talent or swag, who’d saved it from being stolen. kept her from being injured. at school, i’d flinch whenever a friend threw a fake punch. even with her, i’d get startled from sudden movements. when it mattered most though, i became that soldier with a silenced MP5 and martyrdom perk. even my favorite English teacher, a hot young hipster who’d pinch my cheeks and tell me about her eating disorder, noticed more pep in my step. she chalked it up to our classroom discussions on objectivism. while on the bench, i wanted to bring up that day in the park, yet didn’t. she could’ve remembered it differently.

 a flag dedicated to POWs flew full mast over us. splotches of bird shit discolored its fabric. fidgeting with her piercing, the girl from Far Rock explained her and some new friends went to a local tattoo shop recently. “i had a ‘fuck it’ moment. i paid for everything. they were struggling with money.” that meant not having enough left over for her own work. a septum piercing was, in her own words, the cheapest way to “feel like i did something.” the remorse in her voice was almost drowned out by New Age synths. she had them blasting through the speakers of her screen cracked phone. the beat had no drums. no melody really. it was a chill hum, which mixed nicely with the gentle swooshing of the flag. while her taste was more indie pop once, sitting around was also our thing. if not out walking, we’d go to her place after school, have sloppy, immature sex while her dad was repairing people’s cable, then i’d watch TV since they had the best channels or do homework because i had more classes than her. meanwhile, she’d be pirating new music on her computer, spending hours changing the capitalizations and album covers for every track. they needed to look good and match the rest of her extensive library. the girl from Far Rock’s computer made a loud humming noise during downloads. two prescription bottles, a scrunchie, keys and her cube-shaped cellphone sat in the bowl near her desktop. that house was at the water’s edge, in the part of the city where one could hear planes take flight and descend. 

when i finally messaged her, i went with a simple what’s up? there was nothing to be nervous about. we’d seen each other naked. it’s hard to come across as cringe after that. “heyyyyyyy :3,” she wrote back. the “:3” was a good sign, even if it didn’t feel right now as a community college student. i asked what she’d been up to. she spent a few hours offline, then answered “sparkin a blunttt” while i was asleep. that next morning i’d missed my train. the orange tablets my doctor prescribed for lack of willpower were peaking. i could’ve ran to school. it was miles away. i changed the song on my phone every couple beats, scrolling social media in those seconds in-between. there were old posts of mine i couldn’t stand. “50 likes or i’ll kill myself,” i wrote, snickering as a star student and the class clown argued in my comments about how seriously this demand should be taken. it was all stupid now. my eyes darted back to the envelope icon. once again i found myself trying to think of the right thing to write. i couldn’t take it anymore. ‘do you wanna hangout?’ she didn’t read that message for days. i’d crawl out from my old XXXL hoodie to refresh the page. it smelled like fresh laundry. nothing. and nothing. nothing. until one night: a notification. 

parts of Far Rock had flooded months ago. they never recovered. for almost a year we’d been living blocks apart. do you still do that thing with the music? i asked at that bench between our addresses. “what thing?” where you download and organize– “oooh, no,” she snorted, “i stream now.” everyone streamed. it was hard to beat the convenience of having every album always available. yet how names were stylized or what art belonged to which tracks was taken out of our hands. if those apps existed while we were together, i couldn’t have had those valuable moments at her place. those tiny routines become anchors in time. do you remember you wanted to get a tattoo of a bird cage? “y-yeah,” she eased up, hanging her leg over my thigh, “i’m so over that. i’m working,” she scratched her head, “well, interning. at a veterinarian.” do you remember my cat? “a little. yeah, i do.” she had to be put down. i did that at a vet. “sorry, that’s what i hate most. about this internship.” and what about your fish? “…dude…i forgot about those…”

it’s easy to forget fish. “let’s talk about how you lost that weight,” the girl from Far Rock planted both feet on the ground, adjusting the bottom of her plain white T, “now i’m a fat fuck.” she wasn’t. to most people i’d say diet and exercise. that’s what they wanted to hear. that’s what was the least embarrassing, most inspiring. the truth is my pills made me not hungry. i could eat half a cream cheese bagel and some trail mix for dinner, then still have the energy to get tens of thousands of steps in. they made skinny easy. i’d get smiles across campus. i fidgeted while explaining this to the girl from Far Rock. even my doctor’s happy. he says i’m wasting away. “well…i wouldn’t be embarrassed…you look really good,” she ruffled my overly slicked hair into a spiky mess, “though you use too much gel.” haha, and what about this? i reached toward her face. she instinctively blocked my hand with hers, but softened, as i gently pushed her piercing into a less visible angle. this was the girl i remembered. she still wore the same cool water fragrance. the world shrunk to just a bench. we were meant to be. i think. until her phone buzzed. the ambience was interrupted. a roll of loose skin expanded over my denim waistband. i patted my hair back down. she pulled the piercing back over her lip.

the calling contact was a leaf emoji followed by a blowing smoke emoji. who is that? “just some guy whose house i’ve been crashing at.” what? why? “i’ve been staying there since my dad started throwing knives.” your dad? no way! i remember when he made us BBQ… “…yeah…but…” remember? remember when i took a sausage? remember when i asked if he ever rocks out with his cock out? is he still in a band? “he went crazy after his divorce. the second one.” oh…so he’s not in a band anymore? “…yeah, they all quit.” the phone stopped ringing. the meditative hum stayed paused. another call from the same contact. she groaned, letting it ring yet silencing the tone. you know….ugh, never mind. “what?” it’s nothing. “sounds like you wanted to say something.” uhm…well, honestly, i was gonna say you don’t have to hang out with retards. “fuck you!” she sounded like she was gonna slap me and leave, but didn’t do either, “fuck you. you fucking barely know me.” what do you mean? we were together. “we dated for like six months in high school.” 

the girl from Far Rock didn’t go to her graduation. on the last day of classes she left early and stopped responding to my texts. that was the first time she disappeared. our lives were intertwined. how could she do this? did she want me to fight like that time at the park? give her space? time? flowers? get on my knees and beg? i knew where she went to therapy. that was it. during her appointment, i stumbled outside her psychologist, swigging a tall boy of soda, mumbling as if i were extremely drunk. in high school i was scared to drink beer so i told everyone i had a rare genetic disease that made sugars and caffeine have a potent alcohol-like effect on me. Fffucckkkk, you, i drooled all over the front of my hoodie, tripping over my own feet as i waved the bottle of cola around. some of it splashed across the window of the Families in Crisis Center. you…youruinedmy life!1!!1! i “oh my god!” she shouted, gripping her MP3 player on her way out, “you’re a fucking psycho! get away from me!!! get away! get away! get away or i’ll SCREAAAAAAAAM!” wWhat dddiddd i ddoooo? i crawled on all fours, letting the bottle form a little puddle around me. WHAT DID I DO?!?!!?!?! i swiped at her ankles, crying. “STAY AAWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” she bolted off. a worker from our favorite sushi restaurant smoked a cigarette outside. he spat in a plastic bucket.

firsts are painful once they’re gone. for half a year, i didn’t hump my pillow at night; i knew the feeling of a girl’s hair under my chin; could finally enjoy quoting videos over and over. now she was gone. there were only old routines. but week after week, my hands became less tense holding a controller. firsts become reassuring. i’d done it once already. when the locust curb stomped me, i didn’t get as judgmental of my mistakes. never in life would i have to worry about dying a virgin or about not having a high school relationship to bring up in college. i’d learned how hard it was to comfort someone crying on the phone. keep them safe. remind them to not forget that paper due. besides, firsts were also gross, weird and best to forget. the girl from Far told me how to cut my pubes. one of her exes apparently “had a thing.” he liked for her to shave his balls. she asked if i wanted her to do that to me. hell no, i grabbed the shaver, i’ll do it myself. through the bathroom door she asked me if i knew – knew what? – what dick cheese was. her fish floated in the corner, an afterthought.

the sleeve of my XXXL hoodie slid over my frail wrist. i’m sorry. you’re right. we barely know each other. you were just– “it’s okay,” the girl from Far Rock scooched closer, “i was a bitch too. and like yeah, no, we know each other. right?” you look a little different, but i think i still know you. “i think i still know you too.” everything since graduation has felt the same but different. “that’s how i was too. before getting my internship.” it sounds like a good internship. i’m happy you got it. there’s…there’s something i’ve been wondering though. i put my hand on her knee. can i ask a question? “w-what?” um… “what? c’mon, i won’t get mad.” she balled up her fist. well…i guess, why do you switch styles so much? every time you’re online you change. “oh that,” she loosened up, “i don’t know,” she ran her nail over her septum, “i…i guess it just makes it easier.” makes what easier? “uuuhm….to… how do i explain?” she chuckled, “honestly….honestly, i don’t know.” you don’t know? i looked up at the bird shit covered flag, feeling the breeze travel through us, ‘i don’t know’ makes a lot of sense… anyway, i tapped the girl from Far Rock’s shoulder, do you remember when i did that thing? “what thing?” iMmmsoFugginnn drunnnkk, i sprawled my arms over the bench like a wasted bum. she choked on her spit, playfully punching my chest. “ohhhh my gooood, that was sooo embarrassing.” we laughed. “i found out that’s not even a real disease.” i’m surprised anyone believed me. “we all thought stupid shit back then.” 

the girl from Far Rock and i sat for a bit longer. it was late. even that bright red Lucky Wash sign shut off for the night. before getting off the bench, we gave each other a long hug. she pressed her face close to my neck. i felt the heat of her breath and the softness of her back. however, when i got home and checked my phone, her profile was already gone. every couple days i peeked to see if she was back. there were no friend requests. i scrolled less and less and less and less. until no one was around to check if they came.