BJ Fendel is a twenty-something writer, actor, and Oxford comma enthusiast living in Los Angeles, California. He likes television cartoons, Superman comic books, and black coffee. He writes because he cannot draw. He can be contacted regarding questions, comments, and blind date offers (he’s 5’10” and three-quarters!) via email at email@example.com.
A sample of:
Twenty-One by BJ Fendel
Twenty. The mere sight of that dreaded number hurts like a bitch. Twenty years old in Hollywood, and every day I see more and more reminders of my failures. My bank account statements read like total savings of the most impoverished heroes in a Dickens novel. Compared to the young Instagram star who just booked a role in that pilot I read for, I’m flailing, and the gradually deepening lines on my face just highlight the fact that I can’t pretend to be seventeen forever. Eventually, and probably sooner rather than later, I’m going to have let that part of me go, and when I do, I guarantee one more of those wretched lines will make it’s way across my no-longer-smooth face.
Twenty . I can count the lines on my face like the rings of a tree. Some are deeper than others. The main line on my forehead is the deepest, getting carved deeper and deeper each time I drink away my memory. The bags under my eyes become more pronounced for every line of pure white powder I inhale. Rather than notches on a bedpost, my sexual exploits cut their way across my complexion like the scar I put on my ankle when I was younger. Every instance of unrequited love marks my skin with its own unique signature.
I’ve never been one to instill great meaning to objects, my face does a good enough job of telling my life story. the Holding onto things for nostalgia’s sake has never really appealed to me. However, I do manage to hold on to one or two things every once in a while that really bring me back to specific moments in my life. One of my most treasured possessions is a tiny slip of ripped paper that reads: Jay, I worry about you the most. You talk about how supportive everyone around you is and yet, here you are with the rest of us. You must have one hell of a poker face. ~Sydney. In her schoolgirl script, she left a cell phone number.