Diary Entries From a Stuyvesant Guitar

Here, we have compiled some of the entries in hopes of educating the Stuyvesant student body on the incredible oppression these instruments have faced.

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Recently, a number of valuable diary entries were discovered in the corner of the band room, hidden behind a pile of broken cellos and a squeaky music stand. Here, we have compiled some of the entries in hopes of educating the Stuyvesant student body on the incredible oppression these instruments have faced.

September 5, 2019

It is that time of year again: the humans are back. I have survived the last few years of this torturous institution, though sadly many others have not been so lucky. My parents were taken last year, only to be returned months later with their strings loose, wood chipped, and voices lost. They say their pain is worth it because none of the humans take them anymore. It was only this morning when I felt the flesh of a human pick me up from my neck. It then plucked my strings vigorously. It took me out of the room into a different place. I heard many of these humans call it “the hallway.” What is it? Is this where they torture us? Is this the terrible place where my parents were cruelly beaten and left for months? Has my fate arrived?

Very worried,
Guitar #21

September 10, 2019

I have learned a lot in the last five days from humans. My strings are nearly falling apart. I can still feel the sweat of the last human who tried to drum the melody of something I heard it refer to as “that meme song.” Can you believe THE NERVE of some people? You have all the songs you want to use my strings for, and instead you choose to hit my wooden body to some unworthy, simple melody? I have now been left on a cold and hard surface of high elevation. I fear that one day I will be pushed off. Will I ever be returned?

There are some highlights today, however: I met a rat named Playg, and he has informed me that we are on the sixth floor on a structure termed “the sophomore bar.” All day we have heard the humans screech and bang their lockers, in addition to the mobs of humans in uniforms moving past us. These humans are very peculiar; they disappear for around 30 minutes before swarming back out. Perhaps they are the cruel soldiers who will eventually cut me up and rip my strings out. They sure do smell like the type.

Until next time,
Guitar #21

September 12, 2019

I am growing weak. Please send help. I’ve changed locations once again. I don’t know where I am, but I have seen some horrific things in this place. I was taken by a human, who proceeded to drop me down something called “the Hudson staircase.” Three humans have walked by, none of whom have even touched me. I do not know if I should be grateful for that. I must be returned one day. Playg the rat has betrayed me. I have not heard from him since I moved. A couple of days after I met him, he left claiming to scavenge for food, and he never returned. Perhaps he was tired of hearing people pluck my strings. Maybe he died of food poisoning (I’ve heard the most atrocious things about the food in this place).

After Playg left, I grew very sad. The humans kept leaving me after plucking my strings a few times, realizing how out of tune I was. No one bothered to fix me. These humans… all they do is take. About two days ago, my status changed for the worse. A young human, part of the mob from previous days, grabbed me by my head and ran down “the hallway” while screaming “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—” Was this his war cry? He was unable to complete his sentence as a bigger human came out of a room. I was dropped, like an irrelevant object of little importance, as the human ran away. I was quickly picked up by the bigger human and placed on what seemed like a vent, and let me tell you, IT WAS COLD. I could not handle the cold air blowing out of these vents. These extensive observations led me to the conclusion that these humans were indeed crazy. There was no doubt. Maybe they were holding my dear friend Playg hostage.

Soon enough, I was transported to my current location. After multiple hands grabbed my fingerboard, a few scratches, and an abundance of smells, I landed at the bottom of a gray staircase on what seems to be the fifth floor. I think this is it. Not “the hallway,” not the cluster of humans in uniforms. Here in this dark and grimy staircase is where I’ll meet my doom like countless of guitars before me. I hope that when my strings snap, they make the human’s flesh bleed.

Guitar #21

October 5, 2019

My strings have snapped. My wood is chipped. I am.... useless.

Guitar #21