Single, White, Wonk Eye

I've always had a secret affinity for people that have a wonk eye. You know what a wonk eye is; that kind of eye that spaces off on its own like it has its own agenda. Some people see the wonk eye as a social inhibitor, something that distracts away from conversation. However, I kind of see a wonk eye as a special feature that is just too cool for the conversation. I want to be the wonk eye's friend. I want to convince it to join us. The wonk eye is exclusive and allusive, and I've wanted nothing more my entire life than to befriend people that have the wonk eye.

Sometimes, in my spare time, I practice the wonk eye, hoping to perfect its cool charm, its wandering nature, its totally "screw this situation, I'm going off on my own" attitude. And this fascination is nothing new; I think back to my early days going turtle fishing (which is another post, entirely). We would go up to one of my dad's friend's pond and cast out our lines and wait for the turtle to eat the bloody chicken at the end of the line. In the mean time, Casey and I would go and wander about the place finding something to preoccupy ourselves with. Most of the time, I would pick flowers, which honestly should have been a pretty good indicator of later assumptions, but I digress. One day, I came across her like a bright shining star in the black night sky. Her name was Thelma, and she was every bit of eighty years old. She had cats, and when I say that, I don't say it lightly. She had a lot of cats, and they were all kind of skinny and sketch like her. Once I had gotten to know Thelma better, I would pet all of her cats and sometimes get all the little crusty cat eye boogers out of their eyes, unaware of how disgusted I would one day be at the idea of this task. I wasn't really sure where Thelma lived, though I was told she was a neighbor. I always assumed that it was in the broken down shed that all the cats ran out of when Casey and I would show up with our parents to go turtle fishing.
Thelma was pretty cool though; she had a rickety voice and couldn't have weighed more than seventy pounds, and the first thing I noticed about her was that wonk eye. It was my first experience with a wonk eye, and I loved it. It just kind of rolled around in the middle of our conversation, and I couldn't help but think that it was just off doing its own thing. I would go to school and tell everyone about my friend named Thelma and cross my eyes as hard as I could. Eventually, Mrs. Ellis would pull me aside and explain that it wasn't nice to make fun of people; that woman had an issue with her eye, and she couldn't help it. I desperately tried to explain to her that I wasn't making fun of Thelma or her eye. In fact, I loved it, and I told her that I wished one day my eye would do that. Like most of my first grade conversations with Mrs. Ellis, she didn't understand my logic, so she gave me a yellow light and that was that.

After that, fate willed me to be the wonk eye whisperer. I started finding all kinds of people with wonk eyes, and I did everything in my power to befriend them. My Uncle Ralph had a girlfriend named Ruth. She had a pretty boss wonk eye, too. Once my grandma passed away, I asked if she would step in and be my mamaw, and she delightfully accepted. So in the early years when we would go to Christmas or Thanksgiving celebrations, I would hang out with Ruth and tell her about the trials and tribulations of elementary school, and I would silently admire that floating orb of intrigue as she responded back to me. I never really understood the irony that my seventy-something year old uncle brought his equally elderly girlfriend to family occasions every year, but I loved her moxie and charm. I was running into an issue though: before middle school, both Thelma and Ruth passed away. All my wonk eye friends were leaving me. I needed something more permanent and a little less Harold and Maude.
That's when I met my middle school sweetheart, Brittany. She had a wonk eye and a much longer life-expectancy. She was a pretty neat girl and really helped expose me to the youthful lifestyle that a wonk eye could offer. Everyone always wanted to ask about what was going on with her eye, and I considered myself her wonk eye ambassador. At times, I would become violently defensive of it and go on to explain that her wonk eye was what made her special (which in retrospect may have been as big of an insult as directly making fun of the wonk eye...). But sadly, we began to realize that the basis of our relationship was essentially her eye. She loved me for defending it, and I loved her for having it, and if I've learned anything about relationships thus far, it's that you can base romantic feelings off of a single physical deformity.
The wonk eye is kind of like an added bonus at this point, sort of like when you find a set of fantastic deleted scenes on your favorite movie's DVD. I don't actively search for the wonk eye these days, but I do actively appreciate it when I stumble upon it. These days, the only good wonk eyes I have in my life are the couple friends that I have that seem to acquire one when they drink a little too much. I don't ever bring it up to them, but that same childish charm comes rushing back when I notice it. Sometimes, I'll even call them to see if they've been drinking and invite myself over for a chat. Like many things that have been misunderstood in my life, my love for the wonk eye is nothing that comes out of malice or judgment... just yet another one of my misunderstood conceptions about life. One day, my goal is to persuade all the wonk eyes of the world to come back to the conversation and pay attention to me. That's when I know that I have truly arrived: when I'm cool enough to persuade the wonk eyes of the world to focus on me.

Desperately Seeking Shooting Situation

I don't think I've ever wanted anyone to die. That's not how I roll; too much karma attached to that kind of wishful thinking. However, I have always had a killer desire (no pun intended) to find myself in a shooting situation. It dials back to when I was younger; sometimes, when I would be lying on the floor pretending to have passed out hoping that Casey would call an ambulance, I would imagine it was from a gun shot wound. It would always be in a non-vital place like my shoulder, or my leg, but I would imagine I had lost just enough blood that I would lose consciousness. My last words before rescue would always be profound and full of wisdom, like most middle schoolers are instilled with, and then I would pass out and wait for Casey to find me and freak out about the morbid jokes I would play on him.
Like most things in my life, I blame a great deal of my wishing for a shooting situation on television. I've made it a point to watch as many shows involving shootings so that I can become well-versed on typical shooting plot lines. Luckily, between my Mamaw Cora and my mom, I had all of the soap operas covered when I could be home during the week. In the later years when tv viewing was more liberal, I picked up Grey's Anatomy and One Tree Hill. I even made a personal exception and watched Desperate Housewives for the episode where Jackie from Roseanne guest starred and shot everyone in that supermarket. One day, when someone went postal in my own life, I would step up and be the Derek Shepherd or Keith Scott or whatever Felicity Huffman's character's name was. They all tried to talk down the shooter, and only one of them died from it. The odds were in my favor.
The idea has followed me around for years now. One boy that used to sit behind me in middle school was convicted for shooting a couple in some town an hour or so away. I thought of all the times that he kicked my chair and I nearly had an emotional orgasm just thinking that I could have been a target. I know he hated me, but I could have talked him down. I could have explained why it wasn't worth it, and I could have saved the entire school. Surely it would be adapted into a television special, and I was confident that Jonathan Taylor Thomas would play me.
I never wished for anything to happen while I was in high school because I knew the odds of someone bringing a gun to South-Doyle were abnormally high anyways. Between the thug nasties that lived by the river and the uncomfortable number of country folk that had access to shotguns (myself included), I'm actually kind of shocked that I didn't get a gun put in my face on a daily basis. I knew they were on campus; we all did. Too many people shot things in their free time for there not to be. I was honestly just waiting for the day that someone would whip that bad boy out. One day, a boy did bring a dismantled pistol to school to supposedly shoot his girlfriend, but I was sadly on route to a math competition. And honestly, we never were the premier public school of Knox County, but I did expect more than the thinking I'm going to bring a broken gun to shoot someone. Don't get me wrong; I'm happy nothing happened, but seriously...
One of the appeals of being a Resident Assistant in college was the idea that I would be right in the line of fire (yet again, no pun intended... just a terrible plethora of cliches). The idea seemed magical until one girl on campus starting posting a lot of Eminem lyrics and posting statuses about how she hated everyone. I mean, Eminem is no Marilyn Manson, but I was picking up on what she was selling. So, we started talking. I figured that the allure of talking her down sans gun was probably better than talking her down with gun in hand. Same results: less consequence. She told me everything was going to be okay because she was about to get a recording contract, so I just kind of left her be so that she could go be her Mariah Carey self. The next day, I told what I thought was an authority figure of the lyrics and the possibility to the response, "Oh, it's okay. She's transferring at the end of this semester." Sweet response, bro. That only gives her like two weeks to snipe campus. Thanks, brah.
The night after our conversation, social networks exploded with news of gunshots around campus. I thought to myself Damn it, Justin. You called it, and no one listened. No one ever listens to you, and somehow you are always right. Go. Go and fix this mess. So naturally, I went toward the sound of the gunshots. Accompanied by two of my favorite lesbians armed with air soft guns, we ran cross campus in the middle of the night. A police car stopped us and told us to get inside. Oh shit, I was right! There was a shooter held up in an apartment... off campus. Not a student. Well, kind of. We slinked back to our dorm, and for old times sake, I laid in the floor and pretended to be shot one more time. I, then, actually fell asleep and missed class the next day because of it. Close enough for me.
Some people tell me that my fascinations is an utter disrespect for human life. Some people have even told me that there's something wrong with me. But you see, I've never wanted anyone to die. That's just too sad. I have, though, really wanted a situation that would be suitable for a network prime-time season finale. I don't think it's too much for a young man to ask for a somewhat life-threatening situation that he can single handedly get under control. But until then, I'll just continue lying in my floor pretending to get shot, and when anyone walks in and asks what I'm doing (which has happened), I'll just stick to the regular response. I fell down. But we'll all know what's going on... I'll be rehearsing those final, poetic moments before the show goes off until September... or something like that.

A Non-Exhaustive List of Things I've Experienced at Da Club

I've been to what the kids call "da club" a grand total of probably eight times. Each experience has been chock full of fun adventures that have resulted in multiple different consequences. By nature, I'm just not a "clubber." Never cared much for the loud music, nor the ringing noise that followed for the two hours after you leave. It's just a whole bunch of sweaty, half-naked people running into each other, mostly because of too much liquor and/or too high of heels. It's really a train wreck, and if you ever get the chance to experience such an event, I encourage you to do it once. There are some things that should only be attempted once, and God help us if they happen eight times, like it's happened to me.
Going to da club requires some major work. You have to get ready and do things to yourself. You can't just choose a nice outfit because you don't want to look like you're trying too hard, but you can't wear a basic tee shirt either for fear that it might have something gang related on it, and then you have a Bringing Down the House situation on your hands. There's an old woman with an English bulldog in the middle of a race-related gun fight, and... where was I going? Oh yeah. Getting ready to go to da club is hard. And that leads me to the first thing that ever happened to me when I went to da club.


You just can't wear open leather vests to the club as a top apparently. Don't worry. I was not the one that thought that wearing a leather vest alone was an okay decision for a night out on the town. However, during my first club outing, we happened to run into people from the same dorm that we lived in. The girls looked like an interesting combo of a marshmallow and a biker chick. They decided to team up with us to go out to our next location. We paid our five dollar cover, but sadly, one girl was left behind. Even Marshmallow got in. But when we looked behind us, biker chick had been stopped at the door. She tried to bargain, offering to wear her jacket over the leather vest, but the bouncer declined. All that he would say is, "You'll take it off when you get inside, then we're just going to have to deal with (appropriate eye glance up and down) this." He wasn't having this Hell's Angel among the rest of the college students who were rubbing torsos against one another. Not in his classy establishment. So we acquiesced, let Marshmallow leave, and then stayed at the club for all of six minutes. It was nasty, and I don't feel comfortable talking about what happened in there.

I'm sure you're thinking But, Justin, what do you do once you get in da club? Well, you befriend the bouncer. What can I say? I've always had a little bit of a crush on authority figures. So when I was casually dancing with some friends in what I deemed "a sex pit," I couldn't help but offer my big bodied services in helping the bouncer remove two people that were lying on the floor with their pants unbuttoned. I didn't know that people actually did that in da club, but apparently they do. The whole chain of events leading up to that moment didn't make much sense, but neither did fornicating on the dance floor (literally). The whole event started when this lady of the night came through with her hands up. Hopefully you don't, but if you know what I'm talking about, she was that girl. Her alleged boyfriend came behind her, holding his crotch up with one hand, a talent that I'm convinced I could never pull off with such eloquence. Then he started stuffing dollars in her bra, then pulling them out and throwing them in the air. Luckily, my spot girl Patrice went around and pocketed those dollars as the event escalated. Eventually, they just ended up there, on the floor, doing their business. Once the coitus had began and the bouncer noted, I drew as much attention to it as possible and helped form a circle around them. The couple was removed and Patrice made seven dollars that night.

I'm not proud of everything that has happened at da club though, not that I was really proud per se of the previous two events.A brief wrap up of my clubbing experience includes, but is not limited to: returning a stolen traffic barrel that a friend took, picking up an Irish girl because she insists on planking in the middle of the street, getting your shoes thrown up on, dancing awkwardly in the corner without moving your feet, losing your friends, finding one friend only to realize that you've lost another friend, running into people you went to youth group with and finding out they have a baby, consoling your overjoyed friend because a drag queen told her she was beautiful, getting turned in for a hit and run, etc.

I always kind of thought that da club would be like adult prom. Everyone would have the party songs, and we'd all do the Electric Slide a couple times, and then we'd all end by slow dancing to SCLUB7's "Never Had a Dream Come True." That's not how it works; everyone leaves and the deejay chooses the absolute worst song in the world for the last song, and you get so disappointed that you leave and of course, someone leaves their phone behind. You get really pissed at that person and don't talk to them all the way home. From there on: it's your responsibility. When you friend, undoubtedly the one that forgot her phone the last time, recommends that you all should totes go to da club again, you are the one that needs to step up and pull a Nancy Reagan. Just say no.

Come on Skinny Love, Just Last... Like Two Days

Some would argue that I have never really had a relationship, and to those people, I would say... touche. When I think back on my relationships, there's always one common thread: I'm not particularly sure that any of them were actual relationships. Sometimes, I even get confused, thinking that at one point or another, I've actually dated someone, but I suppose that never really happened. I blame it on Brittany Richardson. She kissed me on the playground in her Barney jumper, then disappeared down the tunnel slide like a thief in the night. I'll never forgive her for that because I'm fairly confident that Brittany's kiss and run technique, even if it was just a cheek kiss, was ultimately the downward spiral that would eventually lead to detachment problems, commitment issues, and an overall feeling of insecurity. Damn you, Brittany. Damn you and the playground you played on.
I think the hard truth hit me today when I was listening to Bon Iver, Caucasian people's current golden boy (though I foresee Gotye coming in at a close second). I was sitting at the kitchen counter, cutting up lettuce for a salad, among other white people things, when I really listened to the first line "Come on skinny love, just last a year," and I couldn't help but think to myself... oh Bon Iver, you smug bastard. In the face of everyone I know getting married, engaged, or just having a lot of premarital sex, you sit here whining in your stereotypical white person folksy voice asking for your love to last a year. I'd give my left leg if my love would last like... two days. And I guess, in fairness, that was probably wrong of me to think. In reality, my "relationships" have been more like extended affairs.
I think back to the days that Lacy was my girlfriend back in 7th grade, the good times. We lasted a grand total of seven days, and after the fact, I really appreciated going over to her house and seeing her dogs. I think we even held hands once. I've always been told that I'm trying too hard. "Justin, a relationship will come when you're least expecting it." or my favorite "Just when you stop looking; there it is." I don't understand. What is this not looking business? I've always been told to look; you're supposed to pay attention to everything. That's how people get hit by cars: by not paying attention. So, I trudged on through, ignoring and waiting because that's what you're supposed to do. In the mean time, I had numerous educators tell me along the way that I was going to make a great husband. Not only is that a really big blow to a fourteen year old, but it also seems kind of inappropriate for a teacher to be telling you things like that.

I was Linda Davis. She's that cool girl chillin' in the background.

So when college came, I was ready. I hadn't been trying for some time now. Eventually, the relationships starting pouring in. I didn't know what to do with myself. I was someone's somebody a good deal of the time. However, it never seemed to be the kind of relationships that other people were talking about. We weren't Facebook Official (or FBO, as it will here on be referred to). We didn't go out on dates, nor did anyone ever see us in public together that often. Actually, it kind of felt dirty, which might have been the appeal. Sure, there were some pretty fun movie nights and whatnot, but once the movie was over, there would be no talk of the "relationship" outside of the dorm room. My junior year, I found myself in quite the Reba/Linda Davis love triangle, as my significant other promised that they would end their current relationship soon. There were problems, and like many other loveless relationships, there was definitely no chance that it would work. Shockingly enough, I was just the sidebar to a rocky couple months, and it wasn't long before I found myself in another secret arrangement lacking FBO status or any other normal conventions of dating.
After some contemplation, I'm pretty sure the entire debacle of failed relationship after failed relationship probably dials back to me. The final puzzle piece is the break up Valentine's Day dinner I made this past year for a failing relationship that was never actually declared a relationship. As I was finishing up the stuffed mushrooms (yeah, stuffed mushrooms. I can cook.), I thought to myself Justin, what are you doing? This relat... thing is obviously not working anymore, and you could totally be eating both of these chicken breasts by yourself right now. Not only are you being pathetic; you're being wasteful and missing a prime opportunity to eat some damn fine chicken. Sometimes, the voice in my head takes on the dialect of a stereotypical proud black woman. I don't understand it either. At the end of the day, it's no one's fault but my own that I enter into these rendezvous that have no actual resemblance to an actual relationship. It's not skinny love's fault. It's mine.
In essence, maybe there's not really any connection to Bon Iver at all. I've been trying to lead a Bon Iver kind of lifestyle when in actuality, my life resembles more of a Ke$ha song (and don't you judge that use of "$" because that's stylistically how she likes to be addressed). But there is an issue trying to mesh the two together because you just can't mix the emotional Caucasian-ness of Bon Iver with the trashy Caucasian-ness of Ke$ha. It's just not possible. So, in my emotional mind, there has to be some kind of break. Surely there's a situation that can actually last six months or more, while also resembling at least a couple maxims of the traditional relationship, so that you don't listen to "Somebody That I Used to Know" on repeat thirty-four times. (I didn't do that, did I?) Gotye doesn't deserve that, and neither does any other self-respecting, somewhat hipster, white person.

The Juicy Details of Being in a Greek Organization

I received a check today for what I believe was my housing deposit... a one hundred dollars that I really never anticipated seeing again. I thought to myself, "Way to go, Maryville College. This is pretty awesome." Then I started thinking back on my undergraduate experience; there are a lot of things that I did that probably did not fall under the handbook standards. Of those things, there is explicitly a place in the handbook that states that no student should be involved in a Greek organization. I did my best to hide it for as long as I could while I was in college, but now, after the fact and the housing deposit, I'm just going to come out and state it to everyone. I was in a Greek organization. Not only am I going to announce it, but I'm going to tell you all the details of what it was like to pledge, join, and eventually become Co-President. It goes against everything that I have vowed against, but here are the gruesome details of the time that I pledged... Jappa Kappa.
My freshman year, one of my friends desperately wanted to be involved in an underground organization on campus. There were of course the colors: the greens and purples and reds. Of course, if you really wanted to be among the elite girls, you would pledge the remaining society: the only girl's society with actual known Greek letters. She waited to get her bid because she was confident that she would, and to be honest, all of us were pretty confident as well. She was decently popular, well-respected, and extremely active on campus. When it was all said and done, she would not receive that letter, and because I was done with all my homework and did not really want to interact with my roommate all that much, I was there to pick up the pieces. All of the bids from all the girls' organizations had been handed out... or so she had thought. That night was the night that we all received our bid letters from an even more special organization: Jappa Kappa. My friend Kasi and I were bored and, like most college freshmen, had way too much time on our hands. So on a dark evening in 2009, we created Jappa Kappa: a formation of both of our names using only one legitimate Greek letter, so that Rebecca had a place to call her own. In the past semester, we knew that at least some of the organizations spread glitter of their organization's color across campus during their pledging weeks. It was everyone's least favorite week of college because the glitter ended up everywhere: in classrooms, in the library, in the cafeterias... sometimes in people's eyes. The glitter never officially disappeared until some time around finals week. To put it lightly... the glitter was a total bitch.

So, we approached Rebecca with our offer. To our surprise, she gladly accepted, and we were off to Target. We bought all the glitter we could find. The woman that checked us out that evening was terribly confused. I'm sure she assumed we were either just extremely enthusiastic craft people or that we were buying up stock for an upcoming gay pride parade. It really was an absurd amount of glitter. That night, we traipsed around campus wearing all black. We nonchalantly emptied our containers: red, purple, and green... and blue just because we knew that no one would really know what the hell blue was for. At one point, I feel like someone screamed out "Ya! Ya!" because it seemed appropriate, though Ellen Burstyn nor Sandra Bullock was no where to be found. Once we finished, we nodded to each other in affirmation and agreed that we had finished. We were now members of what I assume is the dumbest, but only, fratority that had ever existed.
The next day, chatter of the glitter was the talk of the town. Average students, or GDIs as the Greek system often refers to them, complained of yet another glitter mess across campus that seemed a bit more extreme than it had been in previous years. Members of the societies secretly glared at members of the others, believing it to be an early approach to a semesterly tradition. How dare those skanks in the greens do this to the reds? How could the purples screw us over like this? Eventually, it was determined that it was those preppy girls in the elite society that had caused all this mischief. Rebecca, Kasi, and I laughed under our breaths and mocked the stupidity of the glitter mess to all of our friends.
Eventually, we wanted another member, so we made our friend Sam carry around a balloon we had found for about an hour. Just like that... BAM. He was in, too. After freshman year, we all kind of gave up on Jappa Kappa, and to my knowledge, it's probably going to be nonexistent now that we've all graduated. Eventually, Kasi and I would commit to our own semi-exclusive groups and Rebecca would join a sorority once she transferred. Sam decided to go into Student Affairs, which is kind of like when a once-prostitute joins a convent to become a nun. He will spend the rest of his days asking for forgiveness for the sins he committed within the bonds of Jappa Kappa.
In my next three years, I never saw a sprinkle of glitter on the ground from the hands of the secret societies. In a weird way, I missed it. But there is something legendary knowing that the last really obnoxious, and semi-vandalistic, glitter mess was at the hand of the vengeful and haze-filled Jappa Kappa.  We were an eclectic group that never threw a party, paddled anyone, nor drank all that much. Our motto was "Don't tell anyone that we did this. We'll definitely get suspended." Every once in a while, we talk about what it was like to be in Jappa Kappa, kind of like when veterans talk about their time in 'Nam. There are flashbacks, but no one can ever take away the night that we really confused everyone by throwing glitter all over the place.

Faggot.

I thought to myself for a long while about if there was a place on this blog for an entry that wasn't funny. I had imagined that it would always be funny; that even if it was a serious topic being addressed that there would have to be some undertone of humor that could be taken away from it. I went through the description of the blog, and I couldn't find any promise that every single post would be funny. With that being said, there will probably be very few posts on here that take on a serious tone, but on nights like this... nights when the search for humor isn't as fruitful as I would hope, I'll write something that might make you uncomfortable. That's okay. It might be something you disagree with. And that's okay, too. But if all goes as planned, it will at least make you think.
I remember the first time someone called me a faggot. I didn't even know what the word was. It was after a boy in sixth grade gym had told most of the class that I wanted to give all of the boys a special something that I'll let you figure out. I didn't know what that was either. Honestly, I had given little to no  conscious thought about having a girlfriend, let alone any kind of relationship. But, regardless, I remember that based on a high-pitched voice and a large group of girl friends and a distaste for the boys' locker room, I was supposedly our class gay.
The boys in the class starting asking me if I was a faggot, and I began asking them what a faggot was. Once I found out, I wished I had never learned it. I wished that the kids in the class hadn't learned the word from television or movies or their parents. I wished that the word had never existed. Soon after that is when I decided that I hated gay people. Once I came home and told my parents what they were calling me at school, they voiced how much they hated it, too. Like a small hole in a pair of jeans, once the word had been recognized, it began to grow. It wasn't long before I was in high school that I began hearing the word all of the time. I would hear it at church youth group, and when we were in our prayer circle, it became more PG as we prayed for our friends who had recently stated that they were gay. I would continue to be called faggot throughout high school and occasionally, I still get the word thrown out at me today. Surprisingly, very few people have ever actually asked what my sexual orientation was. No one cared to ask. Having girlfriends always seemed to offer a hint, but it was never a deterrence from using the word. It never should have had to be. I would lay and pray to God at night, asking to never be called faggot again because just being called the word made me feel inferior. Being called a faggot meant that I was less than human.
This essay is not to discuss my beliefs. A liberal or conservative agenda really has no place in the discussion of the word. The word "faggot," regardless of belief, has never had relevance in the conversation of whether or not gay or lesbians should be married. It has nothing to do with homosexuality's moral or religious viability. The word faggot has no use in the complexities of whatever kind of sexual intercourse someone wants to pursue. It's a word that has been used to marginalize, persecute, and separate humans from one another. The word dates back to the sixteenth century, originally intended as a reference to a bundle of sticks. It was soon after adopted as a slur toward women, particularly old women, who did nothing but gather those sticks. It was then adopted as a term toward homosexual men, as the stereotype insists that gay men act like women. (So, let it be noted... women who use this word are essentially bashing themselves by proxy.) For nearly five hundred years, humanity has been attacking each other with this word, and it's concerning that it's almost become an okay thing.
I tackle TV shows a whole series at a time. One of my most recent endeavors was Will and Grace; I loved the show and found it universally funny, but still found discomfort in the occasional use of some derivative of the word faggot. Much like nigger in the black community, it has been made acceptable for faggot to be exchanged between gay people. Sometimes, it's like the battle has been given up, and we've all just become comfortable with the words that we use to attack one another.
So with Knoxville Pridefest happening tomorrow, I return to the word faggot. I've considered whether or not I should go for nearly two weeks now. I think about Knoxville, a metropolitan area of over one million people, and the ramifications I could face if I attend. Surely, there will be news there. What happens if I appear on any of the coverage, even in the background? How do I explain that to my parents? How many of my middle school classmates, who are most definitely still in the area, will look on the news and see me, only to respond silently with their own retorts: I always knew he was a faggot. But I think at the end of the day: why does it matter?
I find it shameful that by attending such an event, there are still people out there that would so quickly find support and identification synonymous. And at the core of it, my fear does not reside in the accusations or assumptions that I could be... gay. My fear still, at 22 years old, lies in the word. I thought back on my life, and the revelation I came to was almost startling. I can't think of time that I ever feared being gay; I feared the idea of being hated. The concept was not much different than my fear of being called white trash for growing up in a trailer, or a dumbass for growing up in East Tennessee. I feared the idea of being pitied, or being prayed for. I hated that by being called faggot, I was the subject to someone else's opinions or beliefs. By using the word faggot, you are not stating your allegiance to a particular religious text. You are not claiming human dominance (moral, social, or political) over another person. You are endorsing the idea that you have a right to claim superiority over another person. And if you believe that to actually be true, I'll return the favor and pray for you.

One Fish, Two Fish, Strippers On Your Birthday

Three people have seriously attempted to give me lap dances in my life. None have ever been successful. I don't know what it is, but I don't like the idea of someone that I really don't know on a personal level thrusting their buttox on or around my genital area. It feels unnatural and kind of forced. When I think about all the lap dances that have been attempted in my general direction, serious or not, I actually am kind of embarrassed. That's not to say that I walk down the street and people just try and give me a lap dance, but college is weird, and people like to do things that don't really seem natural. If there's a thesis statement to this exposition, let's just get it out there: I am anti-lap dance. There it is, I said it.
My first attempted lap dance was at my eighteenth birthday party, which happened to be thrown by my best friend about a month after the fact. He elected that his girlfriend give me a lap dance because I had finally become a man. I don't really know what happened, but I wasn't feeling it... I sneaked out about two pelvic thrusts in and thanked her for her work, while also explaining that I just wasn't interested. It had nothing to do with her, but I'm just not your typical lap dance kind of man. I honestly think that the whole concept dates back to my mom's thirty-third birthday. It was just five days after her mother had died, and the whole family was still in disarray. Naturally, the only thing to do was move on, and through some pretty technical logic, my dad came up with a plan to get Momma's birthday rolling. He invited all of her friends up to the house for a small party, then pretended to get into a wreck. He came in with this young construction worker that he had "wrecked" with. He explained the story to Momma, hit the play button on our boom box/stereo as he left the room, and took Casey and I by the hands into their bedroom. Surprise. He wasn't a construction worker. He was a male stripper. As I heard the music and the women screaming, I asked Dad what was going on. All he said was, "C'mon guys. Let's go take a nap." It didn't make sense... this stripping business.
Finally, zoom forward fourteen years, and I find myself in a stretch limo. The nice woman who worshipped Karl Marx and spoke of the Illuminati in my post "Reasons I Decided To Not Accept My Open Invitation To The Illuminati" owned a limousine rental company with her husband. She said that the limo was for my birthday, so naturally, she invited the most random people imaginable to come along for the ride. Luckily, I was friends with a couple of people in there to begin with, but honestly, after enough Peach Schnapps, isn't everyone your friend? The night seemed blurry throughout, but eventually, our final stop was Mouse's Ear West... not to be confused with the now out of business Mouse's Ear East. It was a strip club that required you to be twenty-one to enter. I was twenty. In a weird turn of events, all of us made it in: me, the other two twenty year olds, my friend Amanda and her husband, Stef, three random guys I didn't know, and the ringleader herself. I proudly ordered myself a Sprite and stared mostly at the ground.
As the night progressed, the other two under twenty-oners would get thrown out: one for trying to buy one of the strippers, and one for trying to fight the bouncer. As the last surviving minor, one of the random guys came up to me and said, "Hey, man. I bought you a lap dance. Happy Birthday." Fantastic. All that I had ever wanted was to be ground upon by a lady who can pick up a roll of quarters with her... forget it. That's when I met Jade, a young stripper much less tanned and wrinkly than the other strippers. She had only shown her breasts once throughout the night, and I noticed. I respected her for that. She asked if I would like to step into the back for the dance, but I turned the tables on her.

"Could you just sit down, and we can talk?"

I explained everything to her. The sounds of next room stripping for my mother's friends, the failed lap dancing attempts at the birthday party, my phobia of STDs, and by belief that said STDs come from germs that we really underestimate. She told me why she stripped and how she was trying to pay back student loans. She never brought up the lap dance, and I wasn't about to. At the end of the conversation, she told me that I was a nice boy, and I thanked her. She gave me a kiss on the cheek (because if we learned anything from Pretty Woman, it was that strippers DO NOT kiss on the mouth), and it didn't even feel that dirty. However, I did go to the bathroom right after and wash my face with a paper towel... not to mention the subsequent times for the next two weeks.
As the night came to a close, we stopped the limo four times to let people throw up, and Amanda and I celebrated the fact that we were the only two that did not cause a problem at the strip club and/or throw up that evening. I vowed never to attend a gentleman's club again nor ride in a limo. I still have no idea how we ended up at a strip club, but I do cherish my brief time with Jade. I like to imagine that she has stopped dancing for the groceries and is now working a nice data entry job somewhere. As for the lap dances, I don't think I'll ever be comfortable with it. There's too many other things you can get on your birthday; I'll stick to the cake, and not the kind that Rihanna sings about.

Reasons I Elected to Find a New Mamaw on Facebook

The last time I visited my mamaw, it was a spur of the moment thing. I was on my way back to school, and I swung by her house, even though it had been ages since I had stopped by. It didn't take long to remember why. I stood in the doorway, unsure as to whether I should sit down or not. I started in about school and everything that was going on that I thought she'd like to know. Soon, we got to the question.
"So, when you going to bring me a girlfriend up here?"
"Oh Mamaw, I've been focusing so much on school and all the stuff I'm involved in that I haven't had time to think of anything like that."
She gave me a look and walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a cold Natty Ice, Mamaw's drink of choice. She placed it on the counter and announced, "Yeah, you never really were that interested in girls." Bam. There it was. Mamaw was calling my bluff, and I wasn't sure really what to do. She cracked open her brewski, and I could have sworn I was transported. The sound of Christmas past.

All the Christmases that I had at the Kirkland house seemed really forced. I would fight my cousins for a front tree spot, but Maggie was always promised that prime real estate. Casey and I were never really able to force ourselves to the front; we were too small, too mild. We would sit in the back and await our Christmas givings. Even as a child, I like to believe I wasn't too high maintenance, but in comparison to the other cousin's gifts, I couldn't help but feel that maybe... just maybe... there was some underlying message behind the gifts we received. The first gift I remember was a VHS of the musical Annie, which in retrospect could be construed as Mamaw's first passive-aggressive jab at my alleged lifestyle. Nothing could compare to the year that followed. Casey and I unwrapped our presents. The other boys were pulling out pocket knives; the girls were pulling out make-up and Barbies. Casey and I pulled out a miniature can of Beanee Weenees and Spicy Vienna Sausages (respectively), and toboggans. Mine had hair in it. Sweet deal, if I ever saw one. Casey and I traded gifts, mostly because I knew that Casey had this weird thing for Beanee Weenees that I still don't understand. Mamaw asked us how we liked our gifts. Casey and I looked at each other, just a tender 8 and 9 years old, and agreed that the only thing we should do is nod enthusiastically. Mamaw patted me on the head and said, "Good. I know how you guys like to eat." Thanks a heap, Mamaw, for picking up that my favorite hobby was... eating. We attempted to go one more time, but that was the year that the family decided to have Christmas in the rec center behind the flea market. We respectfully declined.
Sometimes I kind of miss Mamaw, but I refresh my memory with all the memories that we've created, and I'm good for at least another 6-18 months. She pops up in the best ways; for instance, the first night that I ever drank, a friend offered me her signature beverage, and being the naive 18 year old I was, I announced to the group, "Oh cool! This is what my mamaw drinks!" She's always had the ability to add a little bit of extra flavor the conversation, even if it is the cheap kind that tastes similar to what I would imagine horse piss tastes like. She's the kind of Mamaw you would take to a kegger... that everyone's already drunk at... as long as there's no homosexuals in attendance. Yeah. That's about right.
Regardless, everyone wants a Mamaw that loves them without inquiring about his sexuality and/or eating habits. That's where Facebook came in. Eventually, I would start sending friend requests to any woman who shared my mamaw's name that could remotely qualify as typical "mamaw age." That's when I found Mamaw Joyce, a 69 year old living down in Alabama. So far, she's been present for my admission to grad school, my birthday, and my college graduation. It's not like she needed me; she has a giant family of her own, or at least what I can see from Facebook. She took me in, all filled with Beanee Weenees and resentment, and treated me as her own.
Even though I don't play baseball like the other Kirklands, nor have any desire to acquire a girlfriend, I consider myself adopted... kind of like a mail order grandson. Mamaw 2.0 seems to be working out fantastically. So, in turn, I just collect my own family. I find them and adopt them as my own, and sometimes, I imagine what it would be like to have them all come together. I like to call it "Fantasy Family," and it works in the same way a fantasy draft would for sports. You go and get them from other walks of real life, and then you keep up with them to see how they're faring. You know that you've won at the end of the day when you realize that picking your own family is a lot more fun than sticking with only the players you were given by chance. And damn it, I made sure that all of them know that I have no preference for canned pork and beans.

Jesus and I Aren't Happy With You, Mel Gibson

As an avid young Christian attending the Mount Olive Baptist Church youth group, I was totally stoked to go see The Passion of the Christ. Sure, it was rated R and publicized as too graphic for many adults, but I was ready to lift God's name on high. If the time called for it, I was even prepped to sing his praises, right there in the movie theater. As for all the reports of people dying of heart attacks in the middle of the movie, I was just Evangelical enough to believe that it was because God willed it. How lucky might we be to be taken during the most biblical cinematic treasure of our time? In retrospect, I was kind of bat shit crazy. Love me some Jesus. Down with the G-O-D, but honestly, I was drinking the Koolaid and picking out rosaries whilst taking a break from witnessing to all the goth kids at school. God only knows where Charlotte Howard would be without me today. You're welcome, Charlotte.

I was totally pumped about being a youth minister one day. I had found my calling at fourteen years old. It was going to be awesome, blessed, and all the other words that really enthusiastic Baptists use to describe their faith. That all changed the day that I finally saw The Passion of the Christ. We lined into the theater, waiting to be moved and shaken. However, I went through three stages during the movie: totally pumped, hysterical, and catatonic. I prayed immediately after the movie, then went home and sat by myself for a really long time. I don't think I ate that night, and it was one of probably three times in my life that I didn't talk to anyone for more than an hour. I was in cinematic shock, and it was not cool.
If I remember correctly, I never went back to Mount Olive, but the trauma lasted for a while. Once I had recuperated from the shock of seeing Jim Caviezel/Jesus Christ hang on the cross for a solid thirty minutes, the terrors would come in bursts. Yes, I would use the word "terror" because my reaction to allusions to the movie were absolutely terror-filled. One particular moment I remember was watching television with my dad. The DVD preview came on commercial, and I jumped up from the couch and ran outside. I'd sit out there until someone found me, crying. The worst of the commercial stints was when I was singing to myself in the dresser mirror in my room (because that's what lonely middle schoolers do). All of a sudden, I saw the commercial in the mirror. Jesus, Mary, Satan... the whole gang was there. All I could do was stand there, frozen. I jumped up on my bed afterward, waiting for one of the characters to crawl out from underneath.
The worst case of my Passion of the Christ induced PTSD came about two years after the fact. I had healed. I was whole again; I was bright and shiny Justin. Surely, I could download a song from the soundtrack (which is surprisingly good); it was only a song. I got on my Limewire and downloaded "Born Again" by Brad Paisley and Sara Evans, playing the roles of Jesus and Mary, respectively. I started listening to the song, and then halfway through, the song started making a loud, repetitive, mechanical noise. EHHHH EHHHH EHHHH! Over and over. I pulled my headphones off, threw them across the living room, ran outside screaming, all whilst my parents were watching a movie. To make my parents understand, I made them listen to the song... after I went outside, got in my dad's truck, turned on the radio as loud as it could go, and covered my ears of course. Eight years after the fact, I still refuse to watch the movie and get chills just thinking about it.

Look at what you've done, Mel Gibson. Look at what you've done to me. No, it wasn't a heart attack, but it was pretty freaking intense. I have all but fully recovered from my Jesus PTSD, but it has been a long road. It helps to think of the Bible in the way that I had read it previously; I always liked Biblical interpretations like Evan Almighty and Saved! more than I did the gory, descriptive ones. Also, I made a major breakthrough the day that I realized the final Satan scene could possibly have been used for Faith Hill's video for "Breathe."
It all gets better one day at a time, but I would like to offer some advice. Don't ever go and see the movie. Don't ever let your children go see the movie, and for the love of God (no pun intended), do not buy the DVD for your home collection. That's like buying Deliverance or any movie starring Nicholas Cage so that you can watch it again. Some movies are one watch wonders, and they should be left that way. On the very off chance that any movie director, writer, or producer ever reads this... just leave the Jesus story-telling to Matthew, Mark, Luke, and/or John. Actually, Charlton Heston freaked me out in The Ten Commandments, so leave the entire Bible alone. It gets revised by someone every four days anyways; let's just leave this one to literature. And to everyone, maybe we should quit trying to encompass Christ's love in new media. The videos, the music, the movies... it's tired. The horse is dead and will not rise again in three days. Maybe if we tried to encompass Christ's love through our actions instead of via an economic market, we'd be getting to the point a little faster. Of course, this is coming from the ex-Evangelical. I'm just some humdrum Christian that prays every once in a while and tries to be nice to people.

Online Dating Is a Little Sketchy Sometimes

I guess I should have known from an early age that I would be an online dater. Once upon a time, I got a random message from a girl on MySpace and after an extensive messaging stint, we traded numbers. I was just a mild-mannered sixteen year old at the time, but something about this impersonal and somewhat fabricated way of meeting people seemed to appeal to me. We would talk for hours, finding that we had everything in common: from Alabama football all the way for a shared love of Gilmore Girls. I had done it. I had found love in a hopeless place, as Rihanna might say it.

Our first date was seeing Me, You, and Dupree, which is anything but a date movie. We would have a short make out sesh in the parking lot, and then I wouldn't call her back until I found out we were going to college together.

Even in college, knowing that my lifestyle wasn't nearly as popular at small-town liberal arts college as I hoped it would be, I would try the occasional "turn a Facebook friend into something more" approach. We would eventually hang out and learn that what we liked most about each other were the other one's Facebook statuses. We were hilarious online; we remember... probably because when we had awkward pauses, I could check Twitter or my email. I don't know what's wrong with me... this amateur online business wasn't panning out the way I was hoping. Maybe this was a tell-tale sign that I shouldn't be dating online. Maybe, more so, this was a tell-tale sign that I have commitment issues, but that's neither here nor there. Regardless, maybe Rihanna knew something more about my life than I had thought. Most people believe that her song is about finding someone and falling for them hard, only for said relationship to be blown apart my drugs, possessiveness, and abuse. I, however, know that this top 40 hit is about online dating. You were wrong, eHarmony. This will not be an everlasting love.

To my dismay, college was not the place that I would find the love of my life, though I spent at least 3 percent of my time there proposing to people that weren't interested in the slightest. (I'm looking at you, Nam) Eventually, under the persuasion of a friend, I decided that I would give online dating a chance. I did the basic steps that any online dater would be familiar with: going through your personal pictures to find one that you look miraculously more attractive in than you actually are in person. If you can find one that has you and someone's hand on your shoulder, or a partial of someone's face, it looks better because that means that you may have social skills. You choose only the hobbies that will make you look like a solid life partner: cooking, occasional hiking, staying in and watching movies (but I'm not a homebody, I swear!! lolol). Eventually, you go on to say that you're "just here to meet some fun people to hang out with, nothing serious..." even though, we all know that's a lie. It's a simple formula. You accidentally forget to say that you play Magic: The Gathering on the weekend and you have an embarrassing addiction to Lifetime movies.

I wasn't prepared, but the messages starting rolling in. "Hey, I just read your profile. You seem like a really nice guy! We should hang out sometime?!?" I was never really sure how "we should hang out sometime" could be phrased as a question, but I went with it. After some initial apprehension and intensive Google research, I began setting up dates. I would tell my closest friends where I was going and all the passwords and secret places I had stuff hidden so that it could be destroyed after I was murdered. The last thing I would allow is my reputation being destroyed as a consequence of an online dating site murder. In all actuality, only one of the meet-ups was actually a date. Most of the time ended up watching approximately 34 minutes of Wipeout on ABC before we started making out. One very special time, I started crying in the middle of the kissing and announced, "I can't do this. I'm not this kind of person," and then left. The only online date that could be considered "a date" was the time I went to see Titanic 3D. Even being the emotional person I am, I couldn't handle all of the tears that came with the evening. We've all seen Titanic before; Jack and Rose die. It's terrible. The night ended with the most aggressive pop kiss of my life, and I checked my teeth multiple times on the way home to see if any were loose.

I sometimes wonder how many days I have left, considering I'm moving to DC soon and have a terrible habit of not learning from my own mistakes. I'll surely continue this online dating stint, hoping to end up with my own You've Got Mail kind of situation. However, in retrospect, the fact that the media associated with my online dating repertoire is Wipeout, Titanic, and Silent Hill should probably tell me something about my success rate. All three disastrous in their own way. Online dating is scary and really not for the faint of heart. Maybe, just maybe, we should take more time trying to meet people the old-fashioned way and not by advertising ourselves as something we're most likely not. Or maybe I need to go check my eHarmony profile to see if I've gotten any new messages. Yeah. Fate is just around the corner.

Wendell.

I tried my hardest to think of a title that would be suitable for a father's day edition, but I really couldn't find anything that seemed to encapsulate everything I wanted to say as much as "Wendell." Wendell is a tall man, with a heavy winter coat, and a winning personality. He has a man's man exterior, with a ladies' man's heart; once upon a time, I saw him skin a deer with a Marlboro Red in his mouth, and he enjoys nothing more than a ribeye steak. He prefers Remington over Browning, was once in the newspaper for pitching a no hitter, and is the only male member of our family in his generation to never have a mugshot. The only thing that I've ever seen break him is the death of my grandmother, shellfish, and Rachel McAdam's performance in The Notebook. He's kind of a legend.
Upon meeting him, you would probably guess that Wendell and I aren't the most compatible in the world. In response, I would say that you are wrong. I'm not really sure how to explain it, but in the most generic of ways, there's really no better hero in the world for a young boy than his father. Regardless, of all the embarrassing things that have happened to me throughout the course of my life, he's apart of at least seventy-five percent of them. When I tried to think about what story I would want to tell about him (that he wouldn't kick my ass for), I couldn't settle on one. I thought about doing a comprehensive evaluation of him, but that doesn't quite capture the particulars in a way that I would like. I've categorized him into three major personas: the huntsman, the warrior, and the Chik-Fil-A fanatic.

I didn't kill this deer, but Pop made me get dressed for the picture
so that I would feel better about myself.

Ever since I was just a wee little Justin, it's been pretty commonplace for there to be some kind of bloody animal laying around our house somewhere. It was my duty, as the second man in command, to eventually be the deer-winner. There would be a day in the future that I would be responsible for blasting an animal away and bringing it home. My training started early. Pop and I would take yearly ventures into the woods, most of them I would try to talk my way out of with a suspiciously convenient stomach ache, to bag my first deer. It was never anything to do with the killing of an animal; I liked eating them way too much to complain about that. It was more about that I had to get up at the crack of dawn and spend the morning in the freezing cold. Oftentimes, I would fall asleep, and sometimes I wondered if I would freeze to death out there. I would be the Leonardo DiCaprio and Pop would be Rose. My frozen pubescent body would be found somewhere around Douglas Lake, where he would put me once I became a camouflage popsicle.
But my favorite Wendell is not one that I found in the woods; it's always been badass Wendell that gets cut off on the highway and throws an open Diet Dr. Pepper into a car full of disrespectful college kids. Warrior Wendell kicks butt and takes names. This past Thanksgiving, Pop called me gay in front of our family and friends. I announced, "So what if I am?!" He then announced, "I wouldn't be surprised!" Some would say that it's our thing, in addition to quoting terrible movies, discussing music, and evaluating poetry. (I'm not kidding.) The thing is... it's always been okay for my dad to call me gay or weird or chunky. It's a whole other story if someone else does. That's why when a boy was bullying me online, Pop made me get in the car with him and show him where the boy lived. Me, being the social disaster I was in seventh grade, couldn't imagine a more devastating blow to my already floundering reputation. Warrior Wendell would not back off. About three Thor punches on the door later, the boy's father answered. Dad would go on to tell him what a "little prick" his son was and how he shouldn't even be allowed to have a computer. I would stand behind him having a party in my head, throwing all kinds of gang symbols and whatnot, while on the outside, I'm sure I looked like I was about to shit my britches. The ride home was almost completely silent, until Dad offered to take me to Sonic for a milkshake. "Don't you ever let anyone make you feel less than you are, Justin. You hear me? What kind of milkshake you want?"

Wendell at the beach.

The relationship between a father and a son is a bit of a double-edged sword. I never really recognized all the amazing things he's done for me until I was much older. We never appreciate those around us at the moment we should; all that we can do is try our damnedest to love them enough to compensate for the times we took advantage of them. The moment that Pop and I really started becoming as close as we are now was when I auditioned for American Idol. We decided to travel down to Charleston, South Carolina for the auditions... or rather, for Chik-Fil-A.
We got there late at night and we were starving, so we stopped by a Chik-Fil-A. Wendell had never had it, and he wasn't too fond on the idea of fast food chicken for dinner. It only took a couple of bites, and I saw a changed man. We stayed in a sketchy motel, filled with avid AI hopefuls practicing throughout the night. Pop and I agreed that I should "save my voice." We went back to Chik-Fil-A that night, then went to the beach. I didn't make it very far in the auditions, and naturally, I was kind of pissed about it. We took off from Charleston in silence. Even when Pop stopped at Chik-Fil-A on the way home and bought ten more chicken sandwiches for the road, we still didn't speak. It was until about an hour into our trip home that he looked around and said, "Justin, don't worry about it. That shit's a set up; you could see that from the stands... want a chicken sandwich?" I burst out laughing. "Dad, why did you get ten chicken sandwiches? You know there's a Chik-Fil-A at home, right?" He looked around puzzled, "No there's not." I looked back and smiled, "Yeah, there is." He looked forward as if he couldn't believe that this magical chicken kingdom existed in Knoxville. "Oh." He took a giant bite out of his sandwich and kept driving home.
Honestly, I really don't know how we ended up together. We're kind of like The Gilmore Girls, with a lot more profanity and dead animals. Actually, maybe we're more like Duck Dynasty. I can't be too sure. But if there's one man I could have on my side for The Hunger Games, it would be Wendell. I mean, the man throws hatchets for God's sake. Past all the Chik-Fil-A sandwiches and deer hunts, I've never had a bigger advocate in my corner. There's really no person in the world that I would rather be like, and without him, I would legitimately have no excuse for acting the way that I do. We never got out and played ball, but he did teach me how to skin a squirrel in five minutes (and for the record, that's slow). And when you have a dad that knows how to change the oil in a car AND knows all the words to every song in Burlesque, what more can a boy like me ask for?

Reasons I Decided Not to Accept My Open Invitation to The Illuminati

I'm going to say what's on all of our minds... I'm too nice. I know. I have a kind spirit and an old soul. I like befriending people that don't have friends, and on a fiscally prosperous day, you may even see me giving money to hobos on the street. I love puppies and babies. I like to see minorities succeed at things that only white people do. It's a blessing and a curse.

With that being said, sometimes I find that I extend my hand to people that probably aren't the most trustworthy individuals in the world. That's why a pretty respectable number of my fraternity brothers have slept with girls that I've openly confessed to being interested in. Most of the time, I count my losses and move on, but there's only been one time that befriending someone has led to me fearing for my and my family's life. The irony of it all is that it started in a little class that I like to call Children's Literature. There was a girl that kind of shied away from the rest of the class. I didn't want to see her lonely, so my friend Kasi and I began sitting with her. Soon, we would have our own inside jokes and would cling to each other when projects would come up, though her opinion on our topics were always a little more eccentric than what the rest of the class would do. I should have known something was up when she avidly campaigned for my "utopian/Atheistic" interpretation of The Giver. It made me so nervous that I felt guilty enough to pray to God later that night for even recognizing that a Godless interpretation could exist.
After the semester was over, Kasi and I began finding out odd things about this girl... like that she's wasn't 28 like she originally had said, but rather 36. We didn't think much about it; sometimes age can be an awkward thing for some people. Later we would find out that she fanatically supports the writings of Ayn Rand and Karl Marx, and to an extent, lives her life by them. Still, nothing too out of the ordinary. Kasi eventually distanced herself from the girl, but in true Justin spirit, I maintained contact. Eventually, I starting noticing an uncomfortable number of likes from her on Facebook. She began sending me incomprehensible messages about how we were to rise up against the government, which really startled me. Then it happened: my message came.
I was alerted of my participation in the Illuminati. From what the message said, I suppose it was never a choice that I was part of it, but currently "I did not know that I was." She told me that I would eventually have my kick (you know, like on Inception) and that we would all come back to campus so that we could all move on together (you know, like Lost). The whole thing began feeling really dangerous, but really fun at the same time because I've always enjoyed pop culture references, and I always longed to be in an exclusive group. (Oh, you didn't know? Check out Failed Attempts at Being in a Social Circle)
The whole debacle really climaxed when she changed her name to something Russian, started posting pictures of my best friend on a Vietnamese fansite for Communism, and was found in the campus chapel at three in the morning screaming about being chased by the man. Eventually, she would contact me and ask me to meet her at a driving range across the street from my house. I turned her name into the authorities and started watching over my shoulder. Sorry Illuminati. It was real.
One day, I'm sure I'll befriend a serial killer and get my head chopped off. I'm kind of mentally preparing for it every day. If that does indeed happen, I would like to say a couple things to some people.

• Mom, you really were the light of my life.
• Ashley, I'm pumped for your wedding, but I apologize for not responding to that nice card.
• Vandy, thanks for having my back, girl.
• Gabourey Sidibe, I was shocked to find out you were nominated in the Drama category of the Oscars. I swear, I thought Precious was a comedy. I don't apologize for it.

Yeah, I think that's it. And most of all, Anastasia, as I believe that's what you'd like to be called these days, I really am sorry that I declined your invitation to join the Illuminati. I'm also sorry we didn't meet for coffee less than a mile away from my parent's house. I'm mostly sorry that I'm not fluent in Arabic; I'm positive that's why I still don't understand half the messages you sent me. But I'll never be sorry for our friendship, even if it does leave me stranded in an internment camp one day.

Nothing Like a Little Hard Work and Defecation

For Elizabeth Dunn. Thanks for putting up with a lot of shit with me... or at least a night's worth.

There are two things that I hate more than anything in the world: vomiting and poop. And Gabourey Sidibe from Precious. Three things. Yeah. But vomit and poop would definitely take the top two spots. When I was younger, I would get sick and throw up so hard that the blood vessels in my eyes would burst. I looked similar to one, Natalie Portman, in Black Swan. Since childhood, I have done everything in my power to keep from throwing up. The only thing that rivals vomit in my eyes is poop. I've never been a big fan of any kind of bodily fluids, but there's something super disgusting about poop. That's why I plan on hiring illegal help to change my children's diapers. I won't be responsible for that; I can barely stand my own poop. I'm not one of those people that looks back into the toilet to see what I've done. I like being done with my business as soon as I can be.

I'm aware that it's a natural process. I've read the literature. Everyone also dies and has taxes; I don't like to think about those things either. If there's one thing that I cannot tolerate, it's the idea that someone would ever poop on themselves. I once had a close call sitting in the Student Involvement Office with a friend and the two Student Programming Board advisors. I thought I had a simple silent flatulence, but it happened to be the ever-dreaded "shart." I knew what kind of trouble I was in, so I quickly clenched, braced myself on the two armrests and thrust myself up from the chair. I swiveled my hips back and forth, using the oddest set of motor skills to excuse myself to the bathroom. Luckily, by the grace of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, I came up clean. Someone bigger than us was watching over me that day. I never talked about that day; actually, this is the first time that I'm confronting the issue head on. Pooping is serious business, and the last thing that I would consider it some kind of joke. Shame on you for thinking that poop is something to be scoffed at.

This is Bridget with the actual gnome.
She's pretty jazzed to see him

However, the only thing that has ever combatted my fear and hatred of poop is the safety of another human. I suppose I should elaborate. One special night my senior year, a night we at Maryville like to call "Senior Beer and Wings," the seniors are served... beer and wings. I know, plot twist. Because my class spent 3.25 years brown nosing, most of them were at least slightly buzzed 1.25 Bud Light Limes in. Of course the only way to legitimately celebrate four years of hard work is to visit a classy establishment. Somewhere like a community center or a nice restaurant. That's why we all went to The Roaming Gnome. The Roaming Gnome is about two miles from campus: a fantastic equation for a class of people who really have no idea how to hold their alcohol in the first place. I digress. However, there was one little gemstone in the rough that really stood out that night. She wasn't a regular at the class gathering scene, but I had a couple classes with her in the past. No need to leave her out. 

As then night progressed, I started noticing the actions of my classmates. I'm an observer: often assuming the role of "mother" at social events with more than seven people. The girl, from here forward referred to as "Diamond" (the most precious of gemstones), seemed to be downing a lot of blue concoctions throughout the evening. My personal rule with alcohol is drink it straight or mix it with other alcoholic things, but there's no need to be drinking anything called "Sex on the Beach with a side of dry sand served on pieces of rock salt and crack cocaine." That's too much of a mouthful for me. Give me an LIT, thanks. My mother's intuition kicked in, and I saw Diamond being escorted out the door by some random man I didn't know. I followed them out and asked Diamond for a cigarette. I knew it would take her at least four minutes minimum to flush one out of her purse, which gave me just enough time to have a conversation with the smartest man I've ever met. The conversation goes as such:

Justin: Hey man, she's really messed up. You should probably just go on without her.

Diamond's Rapist: Dude, she wants to go with me.

Justin: Dude. I'm pretty sure she doesn't know her name right now.

Diamond's Rapise: F--- this.

Justin: Yeah, it's disappointing. I'm sorry.

I had to explain to Diamond that her not-fiance had left without her. In response, I think that made her order more. Eventually, I found her again laying down on a table. I'm not a frequent bar goer, but I don't think it's kosher to go limp on the bar table. Honestly, in retrospect, I think she was napping before her food came. (I still don't know when she ordered food, or how for that matter). However, I knew it was time for her to go home. I enlisted the help of Elizabeth to help her up, but once we lifted her, Elizabeth let out a giant "Ohhhhhh!" Elizabeth let go of her arm and she fell back into the seat. It wasn't long after that I understood what had happened. Her descent into the seat sent the answer straight to my nostrils... that's when I said it. Ooooooh, baby girl, you pooped on yourself.

Like many situations involving tragedy, I blocked a great deal of the immediate aftermath out. I forget how exactly we got her to her car, but the next thing I knew, she was in the passenger seat, and I was in the driver's. We were sitting there. In it. Smack in the remains of ground zero. I quickly found the windows and had the second best exchange of the night.

Justin: Diamond, what's your address?

Diamond: I don't know.

Justin: Diamond, can you give me directions?
Diamond: I don't know.

Justin: Diamond, did you poop on yourself?

Diamond: I don't know.

It seemed we were going in circles. Eventually, I found her address from an envelope in her car. My friend followed behind to give me a ride back. We got to her street and she slurred, "Just stop the car here. I can drive." I responded, "I don't think that's a great idea." She retorted, "My mom can't know about this." I finished with, "Well, I feel like she's going to know when she finds your pants in the morning." Checkmate.

Later, I would talk to Diamond, and she assured me that it was only a twenty minute continuous fart. But as an opposer of all things feces related, I know a pair of nasty drawers when I smell them. Do I regret my decision to help a fellow human in the face of, well, poop? I don't know. Would I do it again? Probably not. Does it only reinforce my hatred of poop? Absolutely.

Failed Attempts at Being in a Social Circle

I've wanted to belong to a group of friends for as long as I could remember. I want to go on fun adventures and have sitcom kind of days with them. I want it to be like Seinfeld, but less Jewish and more substantial... kind of like Friends. I always imagined that we would take hikes in the woods and take picnics places. We would all want to see the same movie, and sometimes, we would split up and talk about personal issues. Occasionally, one of us would date the other, but it wouldn't matter because we would all eventually end up in the same apartment, sharing cookies and watching the newest episode of Grey's Anatomy on the DVR that I don't have. It would be the life, and nothing would ever break us apart, at least until the series finale.

I first attempted this in middle school, which continued on through high school. I would try my damnedest to befriend the Sarahs. They were fun and active. Sometimes they would go over to each other's houses and watch movies together. There were approximately six people in the group, and I had known a good chunk of them for most of my life. They were the perfect group. However, I don't think I was ever subdivisiony enough for them. I always tried to fit in, but it didn't seem to happen. I decided to give up after I didn't make Yearbook my senior year, which they all were apart of. I will never forgive you Stephanie Crichton. You killed my Yearbook hopes and dreams.
Regardless, I am intrepid. I decided to continue on in college. Surely there would be a social circle that would want me. Surely I could fit in somewhere. This is the story of my journey to be accepted by an imaginary television cast: each with a made up name, each with a story.

The Smoker's Circle

I would continue in my pursuits of one of the Sarahs. She and I went to the same college, and surely, with me being one of the only people she knew, we would finally become friends. Yeah, she pitied me in high school and made some jokes at my expense, but this was new territory. This was our spin off. We could be best friends forever! In the later years, Sarah had become edgy. She smoked cigarettes, just like her roommate. Soon, they adopted a few other smokers and would soon be privately deemed "the smoker's circle." In total, there were seven of us. I would sit there, inhaling tons of secondhand smoke, hoping for a chance to succeed socially. We would talk about everything, though none of it was nearly as interesting as I hoped. Sometimes, they would blow smoke in my eyes because it was funny. Was I kind of like a cat or the baby of really irresponsible parents? I suppose. However, I belonged. Soon, once boredom had set in, members of our group began getting kicked out. First it was Julia. Then Nick. Once we had reached a final five, I was next for eviction. Later, the Smoker's Circle would all but break up with only Sarah and her roommate still in contact. I was friendless.

Ultimate fate: Failed.
Group members still in contact with: Nam.
Consolation prizes: An odd case of pink eye from smoke exposure.

The We


Honestly, this was my favorite group. They were deemed "The We" before I had joined, though none of them like to revisit the unofficial title. None of The We smoked, which came as great news to my healing eye. They liked to go and eat together and play video games. They accepted me with open arms, and I couldn't have been happier to join. One of my close friends joined soon after because she, too, had no other place to go. Her roommate was somewhat emotionally abusive, so we attempted to set her free. All was well with The We for the longest time, until I dated someone within the circle. I thought it was what I was supposed to do... just like Friends. Sadly, we were no Ross and Rachel. At the beginning of sophomore year, we all had began to feel the strain of a group divided. In the divorce, she got The We, and I got a very descriptive break up letter. Another perfect, yet forced, social group ripped from the grasps of a lonely boy. As of now, four of the five original We members are dating (not all together, this isn't Sister Wives, you know). Eventually, my ex-girlfriend also left The We. Kind of like the final episode of Will and Grace, I eventually reunited with them and decided not to be exclusive. We'll always have Super Dollar Magic Kingdom: the secret coke machine that we found that you could buy a Coke from and it would spit your dollar out ten minutes later. Consider it our "naked man in the window." I'm still not sure because of the reconnection if I would still be a character, but if I had to say, I'm most likely the Lisa Kudrow.

Ultimate fate: semi-successful
Group members still in contact with: Surprisingly all of them.
Consolation prizes: a break up letter, a semester of isolation, and pudding.

After a handful of attempts at social inclusion, I came to the conclusion that maybe I'm not supposed to be part of a social circle. Maybe the world is my social circle. (How is that for optimism in the face of adversity?) I would make one final attempt at a social circle later on, which sadly went unnamed. I announced that none of us would be friends after the summer and that the show would eventually be cancelled. For the most part, I was right. Social circles are complicated and not nearly as fun as it seems to be in the movies. There's a reason that there wasn't a sequel to The Breakfast Club. In the mean time, I sometimes watch reruns of Friends and imagine what it would have been like if everything had worked out the way that I planned.
At the end of the day, I think there's only one answer as to why inserting myself into a social circle never really worked out. I'm a maverick. Kind of like Sarah Palin or Bill O' Reilly. Maybe I'm too edgy or independent. I'm the kind of girl that likes to put pixie sticks on her once pastrami sandwich. I like to crunch it down with Cheerios and eat it as loudly as I can in the library. After that, I like to walk across the football field, fist thrust high into the air and know that for that one day, I did my part. Or something like that.

Prom: A Survivor's Story

As all of you already know, high school prom is the single most important night that you will have in your entire life. For girls, it's their one opportunity to feel like a princess and dictate the color of their men's ensemble. For boys, it's the high school virgin's last attempt at leaving high school a "man." For me, it was more about color coordination on a more masculine level. Considering my fierce dedication to my Bieber cut (before it was a Bieber cut, mind you) and the idea of wearing a brown suit, I was simply not going to "get laid" as the children say. Also, I was fiercely dedicated to waiting until marriage for sexual excursions (Praise Him!). Nevertheless, I once heard that high school is a forecast of how the rest of your life is going to go. If prom is the most pivotal night of high school, then I suppose that I shouldn't have a lot of hope for the future. Let me explain.

Martina McBride's video "Broken Wing." Familiarize yourself.

First and foremost, if you didn't get the title reference, shame on you. Go watch Not Another Teen Movie and acquaint yourself with Ben Folds Five. Regardless of my ultimate shame at this point, I was determined that my Junior Prom, or "Practice Prom" as I like to call it now, was going to be the best night of my life. You see, my friend and I had planned months ahead of time that we were to go together. The closer that prom got, the more I became nervous. It was becoming more than I had bargained for. Believe it or not, I've always preferred the simple; the basic. There's a safety that comes with the familiar... less complexities to fall apart. However, as the date approached, I didn't feel in control of my practice prom. My date had a pink dress, so naturally, I acquired my pink vest, tie, socks, hair beret, belt... the works. It all become complicated though. My friend's mom, or "the DQL" as I liked to call her, began planning our night more and more. It began with the concept of professional photography. Acceptable. Followed by a rented car with driver. A little less acceptable, but whatevs. It didn't seem like too much, but in true DQL fashion, it seemed a little... forced... kind of like an abusive boyfriend that buys his girlfriend earrings then beats her with a pillowcase of oranges if he doesn't see her wearing them. I was the victim of "APA;" Acute Prom Abuse.

Like a Lifetime movie, I knew that I had to get out. My date told me that there was a possibility that she would have to work a shift at the Walmart the night of our prom. She would try and get off, but she wasn't sure. I had to run. There was no time to think. There was no option. I had to take my things, never look back, and leave behind all of my prom plans before it was too late. I called my best friend, Alex (not your typical prom girl, by any stretch) and asked her if she would go to prom with me. I knew that it would be a favor I would need to pay back in the future, but I needed her. I needed her like Jennifer Lopez needed Juliette Lewis in Enough. The DQL was my abusive husband/Billy Campbell. Ultimately, I escaped with my safety and identity, but I haven't spoken to the DQL since. She goes down as the only parent to ever truly detest me, at least to my face. If you ever read this DQL, I'm so sorry for everything. I'm sorry for this post. Please don't find me.
The following year, I would attend prom with Alex again. My friend had acquired a nice boyfriend who wore a lot of black and was partial to wearing fedoras. The DQL's whereabouts were unbeknownst to me. Like most Hollywood movies about abuse featuring members of the opposite sex, I had developed feelings for my rescuer. (Alex, have we ever formally talked about this?!) I had become close to her family; Alex and I were closer than ever. I had told everyone except for Alex how I felt, even my boss who sprung for a nice dinner to Altruda's beforehand.

Side note: words of experience, though my attempts were not fruitful, don't ever go to a restaurant that serves "garlic knots" on the night of your prom.

I suppose I just kind of gave away the ending. Nothing happened with Alex and eventually my feelings waned and fell back into the best friend spectrum. Neither of my proms were nearly as magical as any movies seem to depict, with the exception of Carrie. My prom definitely went better than that. A lot less blood. Same amount of fire. At the end of the day, little ones, if you haven't attended prom yet, I really doubt that you should be reading the contents of this blog. However, if you are, just try and get out of prom with a healthy relationship with your date and his or her family. Stand up for what you believe in, and don't ever get a brown suit because it doesn't go well with nearly as many color schemes as you believe it will. And God forbid it is a train wreck, know that there will be many other proms in your future, except they'll be called "mixers," and sometimes there will be dress themes. Someone will definitely have a worse time than you. Promise.