June 05, 2002 | 8:58 AM

I had a studio apartment in Rochester NY after I got kicked out of college when I was 19. I lived there for three months.

The reason I had the studio was because my Mom didn�t want me living at home anymore. She was disgusted with me.

The studio was $300.00 a month. It was a square room, painted pink with a pink carpet. The room looked out over dumpsters. In the room I had a bed, a small table, a book shelf, and an ancient black and white TV that used to be my great grandfather�s.

I didn�t have a phone.

At the time I was taking classes at a community college and working part-time as a telemarketer. All of my high school friends were away at their elite northeast colleges, the sort that I had just been expelled from.

And John was flitting around Europe.

Sometimes I would go for days without talking to anyone. My Mom didn�t really want to talk to me, and I found it difficult to make friends at work or school.

I watched a lot of soap operas. I became afraid to go outside alone. Sometimes I stayed in my apartment for days on end snorting cocaine or dexedrine and writing nonsense.

I composed some excellent suicide notes.

When John came back from Europe, he visited me. Finally, human contact. We had lots of sex and good conversation.

After a few days, he went back to Boston to start his new semester at the college I used to attend.

A couple of weeks later, on a whim I told my landlord I was moving. I threw as much shit as I possibly could into two suitcases, scraped together enough cash to buy a bus ticket, and I left.

That�s how I got back to Boston and how the Saga started.

Six years later I have a job I like, go to school, am in a band, broke up with the boyfriend, and will be moving into my own apartment. This time under much more positive circumstances.

You always get a second chance to do it all right.