I used to be a chronic journal writer. I collected black marbled journals and kept a ballpoint pen at the ready. In fact, I used my afro as a pincushion (pencushion?) and often looked like a Morehouse student-film remake of Hellraiser II.
I was raised by record stores. They took custody when I was 13. I stumbled into a spot called In Your Ear in Harvard Square, Mass. Black Sabbath's "Hand of Doom" was playing at crushing volume, and with youthful marvel, I asked the clerk what it was.