1984 . . . the truth is like a box of 56 crayons. —Tao Lin In 1984 I didn’t read 1984 because I was really young and couldn’t read that well. And even if I could’ve, I probably wouldn’t have read it because who wants to read a big, fat boring book about a miserable year anyway. In 1984 I grew up beneath my big brother Carlos’ watchful eyes. I’d eventually learn that my big brother Carlos’ eyes were so enlarged because he had a “condition.” His nickname was El Tecolote. El Tecolote watched everything I did with those big, aqueous, owl-like eyes. He watched everything I did with that “condition” —El Tecolote . In 1984 I didn’t read Joe Brainard. He didn’t write 1984 but he drew a lot, assembled a lot and wrote a lot too. He wrote a book called I Remember and that’s kind of what I’m trying to do now. In 1984 I didn’t read Schopenhauer even though I would eventually read Schopenhauer in high school, a time when I flexed my cerebral cortex like a Tony Atlas bicep because somehow I knew more than anyone did at my school even though they didn’t know it yet. I’d read 111 Schopenhauer and they hadn’t. This profound truth, however, did little to stop the sweaty jock fixated on snapping wet towels across my back. If I could’ve, I would’ve read Schopenhauer in 1984. If I could’ve, I would’ve stolen every single towel from every single school gymnasium in the world and hid them in the basement of some unidentified human torture museum on the moon. In 1984 I didn’t visit Acapulco nor did I want to. My tía visited Acapulco in 1984 and everyone talked behind her back for an entire year. They said she “thought she was all bad when she returned from Acapulco with all those stupid outfits only tourists buy. “La gorda,” they laughed, “someone shoulda told her before she left that first port The Love Boat’s for makin’ motion in the ocean, not for rakin’ in the bacon.” In 1984 I memorized every lyric on Van Halen’s 1984 while my cousin jerked off in his parents’ bathroom to an old wrinkled Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition featuring Paulina Porizkova and Kathy Ireland . In 1984 my favorite word to write on papers besides my name even though it wasn’t quite a name was ’84. The power to abbreviate 1984 “turned me on” even though it wasn’t quite a word. In 1984 my cousin liked to say “this turns me on” whenever we watched Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” video. I didn’t quite know what he meant, but I liked the way “this turns me on” sounded, the way it felt in my mouth. In 1984 I slept with a humidifier on that sounded like one of those creepy sleestaks from Land of the Lost, except my humidifier comforted me instead of creeping me out like those sleestaks with big, 112 aqueous eyes like my brother El Tecolote’s. “That thing’s going to warp your bedroom furniture,” my mom complained. But it was the only way I could dream good dreams, I told her. “To dream good dreams,” I said. In 1984 my mom read me Mayakovsky before I fell asleep. In 1984 my catechism teacher sent me home when I recited “A Cloud in Trousers” instead of three Hail Mary’s. In 1984 the girl who sat in front of me in class pissed her pants. Everyone laughed at Diana (not her real name). I can’t remember what our teacher did but it sure didn’t stop the class from laughing. Kids grabbed their noses and made the pissssss sound as Diana ran out the classroom door crying. To take advantage of a perfect opportunity, I pretended to wring out my shoes as if Diana’s yellow mess had soaked them. This threw many into hysterics. Salvador fell from his seat and several other boys along the back row simultaneously mimed swimmers doing a breaststroke. Diana missed a whole week of school. Her mom stopped by every morning and collected her assignments . I watched Diana’s mom arrive and leave even though she didn’t see me. Her pants were dry, and she seemed nice. A month later, I shit my pants in class. By that time, no one remembered...