I Ain't No Quitter

Yesterday I quit my job, and I don't think I can begin to explain how big of a deal that is because to be quite honest I'm really bad at quitting things. Originally, I had taken on the serving job because I couldn't reside in the District of Columbia too much longer without a regular income. After a couple weeks, it became apparent to me that the only part of being a server I was good at was entertaining people. I had dropped three drinks on people, two of which were beer, one of which was somehow awkwardly poured down a woman's back. When I serve, I exhibit a nearly bipolar attitude, smiling large and proudly at the table... but as soon as I turn around just a quarter of the way from the table, I instantly lose my smile because at some point someone would ask me "Are the pretzels here salty?" or "Which beers tastes the least like beer?" or my favorite being Stare at the check, look up at me disgruntled, stare at the check, sigh... give me the check back as if to say 'Yeah, you're about to get a terrible tip. I like to imagine where these people work and what they do because with questions like that, the work can't be too trying.

But regardless, I stuck with it because to keep on living in an apartment, you have to have money. It was my second job, so when I recently got my newest internship in public relations, I knew that I had gotten in over my head. If I didn't figure out how to drop a job soon, the fatigue was going to turn into full blown exhaustion and then I was going to pull a much more awkward version of Norma Rae and stand up on a customer's table with a sign that said "PEACHES," which bears no significance to the job I work or Norma Rae for that matter. So earlier this week, I went in to my manager's office ready to turn in my two week's notice and after announcing that I needed to tell them something, she turned to me and said, "You aren't turning in your two week notice, right?" I froze. Quitting is not my forte. "Oh, um, goodness no! I was just coming to tell you that I got my new job!" No, Justin. You were coming to put in your two week notice and you just crumbled like a sample cookie from the grocery store. Blame it on my work ethic or my fear of disappointing people or Shania Twain circa 2004, but I ain't no quitter. (And in a Throwing Up in Kindergarten first, I have included a point video for reference. You're welcome).
And Shania and I are no stranger to an awkward situation that we'd like to quit... look at that super awkward 15 year marriage between her and that guy named Mutt. She was obviously the keeper in that situation, and still she stuck around because Shania is no quitter. Then there's me who probably isn't a quitter under very different circumstances. When I take on something, I commit to them mostly because I don't want to have to deal with the struggle that follows quitting something: thus, why I could never be a vegetarian, still smoke cigarettes, watch an immense amount of TLC shows, and still have this thing for Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain. I don't quit things because I get nervous, and when I think about my most difficult situations to quit, I think back to my time as web editor of my college news paper. First and foremost, I want to apologize to The Highland Echo for one of the most blatant half-ass attempts I ever gave to any organization I was in. Furthermore, I want to apologize for the three months that I acted as your web editor with little to no knowledge of HTML. But in my defense, I really did (at least in my mind) try to quit about two weeks into the process. Let me elaborate.
I decided to be web editor under the pretense that I had kept a blog once and that I was pretty good at making Myspace layouts back in 2002. However, pretty early in to the project, I knew it was something that I couldn't do, so I approached the advisor with a speech in mind: Mr. Trevathan, Kim... friend. As honored as I am to do this work for The Highland Echo, I find this work akin to translating Mandarin to the Chinese government or doing open heart surgery on a toddler. I am sorry to say that I'll have to resign. But what actually came out was "I find this to be really challenging, and I don't think I can do it... oh? you have faith in me. Sure? I guess I can keep on trying... I still have no idea what's goi... okay, I'll keep trying." Honestly I had that conversation about three different times over the course of three months, and each on got more and more awkward. I sadly never got to actually use the prepared speech, though words like that may have proved too powerful for the situation at hand. But with each attempt, I became more and more desperate. I couldn't pull it all off and the shadow of disappointment was becoming smaller and smaller in comparison to the shadow of absolute failure that was growing with each failed line of HTML that I had not written. After three months, we still had no online newspaper, and I would just sit shaking in front of a blank white screen that demanded a language that I had no ability to speak.
Eventually, I just plainly said, "I haven't done any work, and I doubt I ever will. I seriously have no idea what I got myself into," and then I avoided Mr. Trevathan for at least two semesters to let the smoke clear. A year later, I got a call from a small feeblish voice that I almost recognized as my own. It was Marie, the then-current web editor of the paper begging for my advice on how to quit. I had become a legend in the quitting community; I was the example of being trapped in something that makes you want to rip your hair out. So I instructed her how to exit, and then essentially begged that she never spoke my name in regard to the matter again. After all, no matter what I've left behind, I maintain the motto, I ain't no quitter.

Slapbags and Buttholes: A Guide to Orifices and Consumables

Today, I found out about an unfortunate situation that happened just minutes down the road from my home in Tennessee. Apparently in an alleged fraternity hazing stint**, a University of Tennessee student was given what the media has referred to as an "alcohol enema." Forewarned, if you're not the Merriam-Webster type, this is probably not the post for you because I'm afraid that this topic is going to call for a lot of definition. From what I gather, an "alcohol enema" is essentially someone taking a bag of wine and inserting said wine into another person's anus. I'm honestly baffled by the prospect of putting anything up a butt because some days, when I use the bathroom, that process hurts on its own. Though I've often heard that there is a pleasurable experience... never-mind, let's just say it: it's dangerous putting things up your butt.
So essentially, these guys took a slapbag (A slapbag is the large bag of wine taken from inside a box of Franzia, Black Box, etc. The term originates from taking a drink out of the bag, then slapping the bag to produce a funny noise) and put some portion of it up this man's anus resulting in a BAC (blood alcohol content) of over .4. For those of you who struggle with math, that translates to .40% of your blood contains ethanol. And though the first thought was that I hope that this young man is okay, I find myself absolutely baffled at the prospect that people put things like boxed wine (or wine in general) and anus(es) together. It's as fascinating to me as when people wear black slacks and brown shoes. As a generation, we are getting completely out of hand. You bring me your Lady Gaga business with her "right track baby, you were born this way," kind of mentality, and I accept it. But when you completely disregard the function of one your most important internal organs, I feel the need to address some of the most absurd combinations I've ever heard of in my life.
As mentioned in a previous post, on a recent date I was informed that sometimes people like to lick each other's armpits. I used my sarcasm senses to try and determine if this person was merely playing a disgusting verbal joke or if this was a recreational activity that people actually did. Sadly, it was the latter. Apparently, there are select people of the world who enjoy licking and/or receiving the lickage (act of licking) of armpits. I'm sure there's some weird body sensor that experiences joy or pleasure in the armpit region, but considering my tragic history with tickling, I'm fairly confident that I'm not one of those people. Call me a prude, but 6 out of 7 days of the week (because sometimes I'm busy and I forget), I put deodorant/antiperspirant on in hopes of preventing moisture from collecting in or around my armpits. So, I don't understand the idea of inviting someone's mouth, or face in general, toward my armpit. The idea makes me nervous, and it's just another extraneous factor that I consider when I'm deciding whether or not I want to kiss people.

Unsanitary.

So with all of this new age thought about what we should and should not do with our orifices, I find it my duty to explain what you should not put in or around your orifices. I'm not going to cover the basics because the Kama Sutra has done too much irreparable damage for me to try and fix that. I am going to cover some basic food groups and some common household objects. First, I'm going to go ahead and recommend that you dismiss any temptation to put any food product up your butt. Leave what meddling needs to be done down there to your physician. And to build off of that, I think we all learned from that tragic, tragic scene on Slumdog Millionaire to take special precaution to keep spicy substances from any and all orifices. In terms of your mouth, I understand that it's really dealer's choice here, but I would like to remind you that we are not cats. I will leave you to make your choices on this one, but I would recommend staying away from areas that collect sweat easily or germs in general. Don't put your fingers near my mouth and don't even discuss the prospect of feet with me. Unlike most of the other categories, this is, however, where I encourage you to put food... specifically, wine.
And maybe I'm preaching to the choir here. Maybe this is more of an outlier thing, and the rest of us have already mastered how to conduct ourselves when it comes to our body and the places where things can go in or out. But, as a public relations hopeful that wants to focus on social marketing, I find it my duty to put out a PSA when I think that societal habit calls for it. Johnny Knoxville made it okay for us to put alcohol up our butts via Jackass, and I want to use this blog to explain how it's not okay. I want you to look around the room, and I want you to understand that there's most likely not a thing around that is acceptable to put inside your body. Protect yourself and set an example for everyone else around you. Sure, it's Yom Kippur, but that doesn't have to be the only new start in the air. Make this the day that you promise to treat your body respectfully and take notice of where you put things.

**correction: According to the KPD, this may have not been a hazing situation... which means someone just chose to do this. Just trying to get the deets right.

Fat Like Me or... Writing on Girls With Markers

I've always had a theory that skinny people were just people that shouldn't be trusted. And then I get soft, and I start letting skinny people into my life because they seem nice enough. Yes, they have their downfalls: they run and can't fit in small places, but ultimately they're people, too. It's hard for me to overcome my ultimate distrustful nature of skinny people because I know if it came down to a natural disaster like a tornado, they would never have my back. Yes, thick boys like myself have a better chance of staying grounded in a funnel cloud situation, but I can just imagine a Helen Hunt F5 size tornado coming towards me, and all my friends are playing a life and death version of sardines just staring at me from a tight space right before I get pulled into the sky. I'll never be able to fully give my heart to a skinny person because I know that all they'll do is steal it and hide it in a place that I'm too large to get into... most likely a crawl space or an inconveniently narrow alleyway.
But knowing all those facts about skinny people doesn't stop me from wanting to reach out to them anyway. After meeting a girl in my class, an obviously natural-born-skinny, I decided that even though she had her moments in class, she was worth giving a chance. She tends to dominate conversation, but I thought that it was maybe because she had a Rachel Berry/Lea Michele personality--I didn't want to blame it on her being skinny until I had to. But tonight, we were talking about the footage that broadcast journalists use as anchors and reporters do the voice overs... the particular one we watched had a flurry of obese people walking around, but the camera cut off their heads, probably to hide their identity. I asked how ethical it was to use stock footage of obese people who probably didn't know they were filmed as the image of obesity in America. That soon followed with a woman in my class, Sunset, talking about how her daughter was measured for her BMI in front of her classmates and went home and told her mom that she was... ugly.
I automatically went into mommy mode and shared my absolute disgust with Sunset. It was as if my imaginary daughter had been called fat, too. Then, out of the silence, Skinny chimed in. She stated, You know, if a seven year old is obese then someone needs to tell her that she is. Someone needs to explain that she is going to get diabetes and that her weight is a problem. I know it's not related, but when I was in a sorority, we did the same thing. Then the guys from the fraternity came in with markers and marked on our bodies where we needed to lose weight, and it was embarrassing, but it was also motivating. I've tried really hard to be a mature adult in grad school; I mean, for God's sake, I wear sweaters vests and cardigans. But I couldn't help myself; I could feel that chunky middle schooler fighting from the inside as I yelled/laughed/cried Oh... oh no. Yes, Skinny is a grown woman and can allow whomever she wants to draw on her with a Sharpie, but you can't impose that kind of behavior on to an impressionable seven year old. If I ever found out that someone had called my child's BMI out in front of class, let alone drew on them with a sharpie, I would find a special place for that sharpie that even the skinniest person couldn't get to.
I started having flashbacks to sixth grade when we were forced to run a mile in under sixteen minutes. Everyone had finished, and there I was jogging (or walking, I can't remember because after the second laugh, my vision started to go) on my second lap just hoping to finish before the time was up. Middle school was not a time that we cheered for each other; middle school was a time to mock Anna G and I for not being able to carry our body weight for a mile. The whole thing was mortifying, and I promised myself that if I could just finish that mile, I would convince my parents to buy me a Hoveround, and I would never walk again. I hated all those skinny people because even when they finished, they continued to walk around like standing up wasn't even a big deal. They didn't understand what it was like to be like me, and they sure weren't open to the idea of trying to picture it.
And I suppose that anger has subsided a bit since I've gotten older. I came to terms that I would never be one of those tinys, but as I got older, I've pretty much maintained the same weight... it just distributed itself better the taller I got. Even now, as I continue to lose weight via my diet of cigarettes and cubes of cheese, I still understand the struggles of those that have a little more to love. I identify with people who understand what it's like to fluctuate between "beautiful" and "beautiful plus some." I'm inspired by people like Kirstie Alley, Josh from Drake and Josh, and the ongoing weight mystery that is Oprah Winfrey. People who are naturally large have to actually work at being skinny, which is frustrating when you're around people who can eat like fourteen hot dogs, a honey bun, a five gallon bucket of 7-11 Slurpee and then say, Wow I feel so fat today while sporting what looks like a premature food baby at best. When I meet people like that, they don't make me want to lose weight... they make me want to eat them.
So, if you're skinny... first and foremost, shame on you. Okay, maybe not shame on you... more so, consider what it's like to walk around feeling less. On top of all the comments you get throughout your day, you're the first person that sees you in the morning. You already know what people are going to say because you say it to yourself first. If you're a little bigger, remember that no matter what size you are, you are important. You should never feel like less of a person because you're a bit larger than the rest. And if you're a bigger person moving toward a skinny life based on nicotine and a couple bites of bread a day, don't do it because you want to be skinny... do it because you don't have money or because you forget to eat, like me. And if you do achieve that point of skinny-sin, then I hope you remember all the people that stared at you because you were fat. Don't forget how it felt to be stared at as you bounced much more than everyone else as you ran laps on the track. And for God's sake, don't justify telling a seven-year-old that she's going to have diabetes one day in front of her peers. If what motivates you is having a man tell you what's wrong with your body by drawing on you with a marker, maybe you need a different kind of mirror to assess what might need some work.

Apparently, I'm No Sarah McLachlan

I keep telling everyone that I want a cat, and in essence, I do. I love the idea of having a cat in the same way that I really like the idea of having over-sized glasses or actually being compelled to read past page 24 of Anna Karenina. I like cats in the same way that I like black coffee or doing yoga or having a legitimate interest in craft beer. All of these things come to mind when I think of ways to describe myself, but actually, those things are all lies. Maybe that's an issue, that I describe myself with interests that sound appealing as opposed to the things that I actually do. But at the end of the day, I think I want a cat because I once had a pretty cool relationship with a cat, and I'm kind of blocking out all the other pet experiences I've had in my life. My cat Skeeter was a boss. He laid around a lot, mostly on his back under the ceiling fan. I didn't really have to take care of him, so it was more like having a really quiet brother that I would talk to sometimes. Most of the time, he didn't want anyone around and considering that he was obese, I didn't really want him on me either. Skeeter and I got along because most of the time, neither of us really wanted the other one around. It kind of worked the same as most of the relationships I had in middle school.
But when it comes down to it, I'm really not a pet person. Most of what I have owned I ended up killing. For instance, when my mamaw died, I had really bad emotional backlash, so my parents bought me a red beta fish. Essentially, you can't kill a beta, even if you don't feed it for like three days. I know because I was really bad at feeding it. I named him George (after George Strait, naturally), and he was good people. After a while, I got the hang of taking care of him, and like most of my pets, he quickly became my best friend. Then, like a thief in the night, my dad bought himself a small catfish. Dad decided that it would be a good idea for them to share an aquarium, so when I came home from first grade and found half of George floating at the top of the water with the other half inexplicably missing, I panicked. Had not feeding George resulted in him eating the top half of his body? When I approached my dad with tears in my eyes, his only explanation was... and I quote, "Catfish domination." From that point on, pretty much everything I owned was destined for some terrible fate.
My dog Sable died of parvo. The dove I found outside our house died from some bird disease. The next dog I had, Roxie, died of parvo. My pet rabbit, Grace, was attacked by one of my dad's hunting dogs. When I buried her, I cried so hard that I covered my face with my hands. It then took a subsequent two years to convince me that I wouldn't die myself via facial exposure to dead rabbit germs. The pet turkey (a seemingly indestructible creature) we had was eaten by coyotes. All the quail we owned started disappearing... years later, I found out that I ate them. However, the most devastating fate was probably the first cat that I ever had, Tiger.
After a moving sermon at New Hopewell Baptist Church, I had acquired what I call "the baptism bug." As soon as I got home, I started looking for things to baptize: action figures, my pillow, my brother Casey... you name it, and I redeemed its soul in the name of Jesus Christ. Tiger, however, was a tricky target. He had been scratching things for some time, and the most logical eight-year-old solution was to wash those demons out of him. So eventually, after hours of work... I caught him. I filled up the bath tub beforehand, understanding in previous attempts, the sound of the bathtub filling up only induced the demons within him. His demons were no challenge for me though. The day that I baptized Tiger was one of my proudest; nevertheless, Tiger clawed his way up my arm, over my shoulder, and ran out the door. I never saw Tiger again after that day.
With a pet resume like that, I was honestly surprised that anyone would ever allow me to babysit their kids, but throughout high school, I babysat two kids who have grown up to be seemingly halfway decent people now. I like to think I had a pretty heavy hand in that. I would make them food sometimes or turn off the television and make them do homework. Essentially, I was the closest thing to Maria Von Trapp that someone could be without making a new wardrobe out of the drapes. So when my former boss presented me with the opportunity to "dog-sit" for her, I embarked on the opportunity with open paws (several puns intended). I had, at some point, blocked out all of the horrible things I had done to animals over the years and assumed that if I could watch kids a couple days a week that I would surely be able to watch dogs.
But it didn't take long to realize that maybe this wasn't the kind of a job for someone like me. When I walked into their house, the couch and chairs were covered in hair, and I mean, if that's what you're into then cool. These people had a baby though... a little tiny human that I had watched eat her own boogers on several different occasions. I rarely ever saw the kid, but I always saw the dogs and it only took me a couple minutes to realize that these dogs are the stars and the baby is kind of like a recurring character. I know that wherever this couple went, they didn't take their baby, but I was also unsure where the baby actually was. After some contemplation, I assumed she was in the mailbox... I didn't check to confirm or deny that theory. My job was the dogs, and that's what I was going to attempt to do. I was instructed to stay in the house with them and that I should sleep there.
After one night of sleeping in the house though, I knew that I would never dog sit again. I don't cuddle with humans, let alone dogs. I have boundary issues, and maybe that means I wasn't hugged enough as a child, but we can't really do much to remedy that now. As I laid there trying to fall asleep, these two full sized labrador retrievers boxed me in, similar to the way that football players would sandwich me in the hallway as a high school freshman. I felt intimidated and uncomfortable, especially when one of them would start pawing against my butt... the dogs, not the football players. After night one, I decided that the best option would be to lock them in the basement at night. It was only like... eight hours. They'd be fine because normal living creatures should work the same way as humans, right?
Wrong. One of two things happen to dogs at night: (1) They poop on themselves mid-sleep or (2) Dogs are oddly nocturnal. I never thought to check the basement the next morning because I was using human mentality. I don't poop on myself when I sleep, so surely they'll be good to go once I get up in the morning. After my four day stay, I picked up my compensation and went on my way. Later that day, I would get a call from their owner that went something like this: Justin, do you enjoy abusing my dogs? I mean, did you even take them outside to use the bathroom or did you just lock them in the basement for the entire week for you to go off and do God knows what? Seriously, what the f*%& did you do this week? You will never get near my dogs again. How would you feel if you were locked in a basement for an entire week? Well, I probably wouldn't mind it because I could get some serious reading done, but that was neither here nor there. At this point in the conversation, I laid the phone down because this was obviously a battle I was going to lose. I began to wonder what exactly was in the basement... did they really poop feet upon feet of feces or was this like... one poop pile left unattended? Maybe my theory about the baby was wrong, and they made the same misconception that I did and the baby pooped everywhere. Yes. That was the theory that I would follow.

Needless to say, I've pretty much stayed away from the idea of having pets since that debacle. I'm pretty sure my name is on a list somewhere that prohibits me from getting in a seven feet radius of a dog and the owner of that list is our very own, Sarah McLachlan. I'm like 98% confident those dogs were alive when I left that house, and if they weren't it was because something terrible had happened between the time I locked up the house the last time and the time that their owners got home. I actually wouldn't have been surprised if they held all their poop that week, unlocked the basement with their secret human capabilities, and went down there and pooped for like two hours straight. Those dogs were evil, and they gave me evil labrador retriever eyes all the time. And as much as I showered, they always wanted to smell my man business, so honestly, I should have remembered to mention how much that bothered me during our conversation about my inability to take care of animals. But I didn't... the past is the past, and all we can do is learn from it. That's why I have the opinion I do about getting a pet. I know that if I got a cat, it would probably meet a similar fate as the others, and even if it didn't, I'd probably try to baptize it in a religious daze and never see it again anyway.

Yesterday, Today, and Sometimes Tomorrow

I got a message on Facebook from my ex-girlfriend/life partner/best friend about how she won a radio contest playing Taboo with the host, but then she mentioned that if I were the radio host, the score would have been amazingly different. Kasi and I have a reputation when it comes to Taboo, so much so that people usually don't want to play with us. When someone can look at you and say, You would never be on one of these and I respond school bus without thinking about it... and it's correct... then you know that there is something dangerously wrong with that situation. For the record, you're welcome to everyone at the "DKE/KZD My Tie Games 2010." But as I read the message, I was driving home from work. I instantly burst out into hysterical laughter and within about two (literal) seconds, burst into hysterical tears. Apparently, I cry a lot. I didn't know that you could literally transition from one emotion to another that quickly; I swear I thought that only happened in movies.

But it really should be no surprise because I mastered the art of what I like to call "surprise tears" at an early age. It always depended on the occasion, but I could make them appear like magic. And the thing is, these were always very real tears. Sure, they magically came about when I would not want to do something: go deer hunting, go to school, stay at school, occasionally... leave school (??), but it was always a powerful moment that my freakishly blue eyes would start hurling tears toward anyone in a three foot radius... kind of like a sprinkler.

But lately, I've found myself bound among three different time periods: actually, they're the most basic time periods that any human can know... yesterday, today, and tomorrow (sometimes), and I alternate between them like someone with multiple personalities. I can't seem to figure out which reality I want to live in, so I just switch back and forth among them.

Yesterday

This one is usually the one that induces the most tears. It comes from living in a world that has never had the responsibility of changing. Sure, I had to move from one school to another... one pair of wind breakers to jeans to khakis to a grossly nicer pair of jeans. But in reality, I never had to change my world all that much because it was a world that didn't really require that much of a change. And I long for that every day because it was such a fantastic world to live in... but what world isn't when you don't have to live in it anymore? All of a sudden, my senior thesis and seemingly disastrous relationships and RA duty nights are all things that I cherish more than loathe (actually, let's be honest. Anyone that knew me knew that I never truly loathed any of those things). But I find myself reaching out to the people that made that "yesterday" so very special. And I think a lot of times, people find themselves living in the past because they don't want to let go of what was once before them but is now behind. However, I'm going to make the assertion (like most people do) that I'm different. I like the idea that I take time to look into the past because there really is so much to learn about what had already happened to us. And maybe, just maybe, there are pieces and parts and places and people that are worth holding on to. There's never a reason that you should be ashamed to go back, and there's never a reason that someone from days gone by can't eventually be someone from days ahead... and that's where it gets blurry. That's why it's only sometimes tomorrow, because if you think about tomorrow in reference to yesterday, then it all gets really messed up and you feel like you're working through the story line of Inception, if there actually ever was a story line to Inception. Eventually, my head starts to hurt, so I listen to Edith Piaf's Rien de Rien so that I can get my "kick" and come back to reality.

Today

And then there's today, which is sometimes are confusing and complicated as the yesterday/tomorrow love child because there's really issues that have to be solved... today. Even though I haven't given up on the idea that life in the "real world" (and I say that with heavy sarcasm because, I mean, c'mon... if you're proclaiming to be in the "real world," then most likely you are as far in make believe land as a four year old) can be fun because I believe it can be. I have last Friday night to prove that. I also have the Saturday I spent at the National Zoo wearing a panda hat to prove that as well. But on the days that aren't as fun, I suppose that today is quite a complicated place to be. Today is a kind of place that celebrates an electricity bill that is 88 dollars because you thought it would be 200. Today is the feeling that you worked two doubles and didn't want to kill yourself at the end of it. Today is a day when you feel proud because you didn't have to take a nap in the middle of it. And once more... today is a place where yesterday and tomorrow meet, which is maybe why it's so confusing. It's the moment you've been waiting for because you've been preparing yourself in the past for everything that lies ahead, and you have all this hope for the things to come. With all of it's difficulties and obstacles, today might just be the best place that you can ever be.

(Sometimes) Tomorrow

On days when you didn't get a chance to nap, tomorrow isn't really as much of a priority as "bed" is because you've used just about all your energy that you have on what has been sitting directly in front of you; however, tomorrow is a fantastic place to land if you have the time to think about it. It's kind of like Alice in Wonderland because it's the huge hole where anything can happen... good and bad. Sometimes, tomorrow consists of the same double shift that you worked today, or in my case, it is this amazingly terrifying place that holds a job interview that you never thought you could get in the first place. Tomorrow might be the day that I find the love of my life, or perhaps, tomorrow could be the day I die. It's a giant gamble, and that's the most exciting thing that can happen to a person because we all want to believe that our lives are not predictable. We want to think that something magical could happen, even if in the end, it's relatively minute. Tomorrow is the kind of place that stories come from: the stories that we read for entertainment and inspiration. And as important as the past has been, specifically for the content of this blog (and I swear, one day soon, I will return to the silly anecdotes of days passed), sometimes it is the stories that I write about the future that inspire me the most. Tomorrow is where all the hopes of today and yesterday reside. It's entirely yours to write, and nothing can stop you from fulfilling each tomorrow with exactly what you hope will be in it.

Sigh. That's a lot of time metaphor for one entry, but let's see if I can wrap it up with something wittingly personal, while also universal that you can apply to your life. Currently, I'm in a battle with yesterday, today, and tomorrow. In the midst of being knee deep in a completely new city full of completely new places, the only person I really want to share my life with is someone from the past. And for days now, all that I've done is wonder how I can get back there: how in the world have we gotten all the way through at least SIX different iPhones and not figured out a way to send ourselves back in time? But the slightly painful, slightly exciting thing is that... for today... that is just not something remotely possible. There is no way for me to return to Knoxville and experience anything that I used to know. I mean, I'm all paid up through September, and if I left now, that's just a waste of money. I don't do things like that.

And the downside/upside to all of that is... everything could change tomorrow. Tomorrow is that interview, and if I get this position, I have no doubt that it will be the beginning of my life changing forever. And with opportunity comes change and people and new adventures. You meet all these great people, and one of them could be the person that you've been waiting for. The person that makes you want to be a better person just because they exist. So, when you think about your tomorrow... whether it be in disgust or excitement, just know that it could be the day that changes your entire existence. And if you think about the past and long for what you once had, realize that there could be something lying ahead that is greater than anything you've ever known. And if neither one compels you all that much, then take a moment and do your best to live today to the fullest extent that you know how to because if there's one thing that is absolutely certain, you have today, and that's all that any human can ever truly ask for.

The Price of Life

I once was in the midst of talking with some friends about life experience. I've never been one to keep a secret about myself for internal purposes because I've always believed that if there's something I've been through in my life, someone else has probably already gone for it. Anything that I've ever kept to myself is for the benefit of others or perhaps a protection of myself from others... I can't be sure. But at the end of our conversation, when I asked them why they weren't open with the things that have shaped them throughout their lives, they responded You just wouldn't understand the kind of things we've been through; you haven't been through that kind of stuff. Six months later, I dated someone who said something to the same effect: You don't understand why someone would keep something back because you've never been through real tragedy. Then at the end of my college career, my dear friend Taylor told me, As much as I like you, I don't feel like any of us ever got to know who the real Justin Kirkland was. I thought that the statement was hilarious because for such a long time, I had the philosophy to tell everyone everything, but then it hit me. Much like the profession that I would like to go into, I've learned to tell people things about me that are informative enough. All of these stories and embarrassing moments, all of these anecdotes and jokes at my own expense are provided so that it may seem as if I've said enough. And I mean, who can blame a person for doing that when their life has been chocked up to "simple and tragedy-less" by a group of people that he once cherished. I have become a person that works to appease the masses with surface level stories in hopes that it will be enough, and that's heartbreaking because it implies that my life isn't good enough to share with anyone. It implies that there is a price on life.
Unlike most of my posts, this particular entry will not focus on the past. The past has already happened, and there's not a lot we can do to change it. If all goes as planned, my hope is that this post will not even focus so much on me, as it will on you. What is the price that you have assigned to your own life, and if it can be rounded to a particular number, then hopefully by the end of this I will have convinced you to reconsider that. Moving to a place like Washington D.C. can sincerely shake the person you are to your very core. From the first week I moved up here, plenty of people commented on my accent with some even summing me up to be a hillbilly, redneck, etc. I'm sure that you've already picked up on that though because so many of my posts have centered on something of that nature. It wasn't until recently that I became aware that I had allowed myself to not only accept that role, but fulfill it. Another couple dollars off my own life balance. Then, after weeks of applying to jobs, I stopped sending in applications. I had reserved myself to the fact that maybe I wasn't good enough to get hired. And suddenly, the cents started to roll off the life balance. I haven't talked to anyone about it... not because I was strong enough to handle it on my own, but more because I believed that no one cared enough to hear about it.
So one day, I got lost in Southwest DC. I was meeting a friend for dinner and the plans got cancelled and I had no idea what to do with myself. I still hadn't really met anyone, so I wandered around for awhile, and before I realized it... I was crying. Twenty-two years old and I was walking down the street crying without any attempt to hide it. I was hoping that someone would stop me and ask what was wrong. I thought Surely, someone will. I'm sure that someone in Knoxville would, so surely someone in DC will as well. But they didn't. No one cared enough to stop and ask what was going on because they... well... they just didn't care. Not like we do. Not like I do about you.
And if you're reading this, then that you is directed at you. You take the time out of your day to open up the ramblings of some guy that you've known since middle school or to see if you got mentioned in that story in college that you're sure he hadn't forgotten. Maybe someone forwarded you the link or you're one of those very dedicated Russian fans (seriously, you all are my favorites). Maybe you just friended me on Facebook and this is the first time you're reading, but if you are, then yes: you are the one that I care about.
And I don't care what you've been through or what kind of hell or heaven you've walked out of to get here because your life resonates in my heart in the way that I would like to believe that we all should feel in a perfect world. And this doesn't come from that all appeasing place because if I wanted you to like me, I'd just continue writing another post about how I carry a lead pipe in my car or how I just recently went out with someone who has an affinity for licking other people's armpits. However, this is my extension to you to say that I care about your life in the same way that I would like people to care about mine. You have purpose and worth, and you should believe that. The reason it lays so heavily on my heart is that today at lunch, the one person who has come to mean the most to me in DC said, We're not at the place that we're going to talk about the heavy and deep stuff, and I immediately shut down. Whether it was intended or not, it was another person who was telling me that my life was insignificant in the grand scheme of life experience. It was another person who walked the earth with a feeling of livelihood entitlement, or at least, that's the way I saw it. And in the end, that's probably not what was meant at all; if anything, it's a reflection of who I have let myself become: a person who has forced himself to see the bad in people and to find any reason possible to distrust a friend. But in that moment, none of that mattered because I was determined to run.
So all that I wanted to do was shut down and walk away. I imagined that I would provide a couple of jokes, something topical or self-deprecating and then begin to pull away. Distance, at one point, was the safest thing that I could do in this situation because no matter what has ever been said to me, I promised myself a long time ago that I would never tell another human that their experience didn't matter to me. I would never imply that there was something about my life that trumped the pain they had been through because that's the same kind of mentality that has caused so much pain an heartache in the world. But as I began my plan to distance myself from another person, I thought about the ramifications of distance. I was doing nothing but hurting myself; when we run from other people--when we distance ourselves in protection-- it's the perfect opportunity to say that someone had let us down. We run as fast as we can in the opposite direction and then blame the other person for not chasing after us. And for people like me, we take that situation and detract worth from our lives. If someone wasn't determined enough to run after me as I desperately tried to escape them, then it must mean that I was never worth running after in the first place.
Adulthood was supposed to be a time when I worked for myself with little to no regard about the people around me. I was supposed to be able to do this life on my own without the influence of another person, and interestingly enough, I've never wanted a personal connection more in my life. So, as I embark on a journey in a city where making eye contact is the equivalent of stabbing someone in the middle of the subway/metro, I want to work toward a seemingly impossible goal. I want to live this part of my life in such a way that no one that I ever truly cared about, whether they run or not, can say that they didn't know who the real Justin Kirkland is. I want to make sure that I never reflect on my life in comparison to how important it is in comparison to anything or anyone else. And I hope, when you approach someone who seems like they might have a bit of love available to you, do not run. Do your best to never make them feel insignificant or worthless. Do everything you can to open up your heart to them because it is only when two hearts are open to receiving love that love can be given or taken. And I beg of you, most of all, when you feel that no one understands you or loves you... even if you've been through something that no one else in the world could even begin to understand... do not ever put a price on life.

In Regard to Bullshit

As I was leaving work today after my serving test, I was absolutely exhausted. Jumping from one job then making it to the next one can be quite trying. I spent the morning working on some last minute PR work for the first job, then I had to pass the final serving test for the restaurant I work at so I can legitimately begin serving. I apparently passed about halfway through with my only critiques being: 1) Be more confident when you approach the table, and 2) When you don't know the answer to a question, don't try to bullshit people. Personality will only take you so far. Psh. Personality runs the world.
Just in case that wasn't a proven fact, as I was walking back to my car completely relieved that the day was over, there was a small man with an electronic notepad in his hand. I saw him walking around my car when it hit me. I didn't pay my meter. I ran in my serving uniform up to my car and announced, I'm here! I'm here! I'm here! The officer, completely unamused turned around and said, I'm here, too. I knew that I had to do one of two things... convince this man that I had never done anything wrong in my life or talk to him so much that getting away was more desirable than actually giving me this ticket. On impulse, I channeled every bone of bullshitting skills in my body and began, Listen, you look like a nice man. You have kind eyes. You "can" do this, but you don't want to do this. He looked at me and said, You didn't pay for the fare, I have to give you a ticket. I responded, But you don't. If you let me get in my car, I will pay every meter I ever park at. Maybe even extra! We can all forget about this.
He looked me up and down and said, Get in your car. At that point, you don't say thank you or God bless you; you just get in your car and thank the deities of sarcasm that you somehow managed to get out of a fifty dollar ticket. And on my way home, I realized that even though most would say that I'm personable and intelligent, the majority of my life I've ridden on having strikingly blue eyes, an infectious smile, and the ability to tell people things that they want to hear. I have navigated through life on one slippery slope of bullshit, and for that, I will be forever thankful.
That's not to say that I'm not sincere; I'm usually always sincere to some extent... like, I fully intend to pay every meter that I park at, not to appease the parking gods, but rather because that's a nice civic thing to do. However, when the cards are all out on the table, and I need to put on my poker face, it's kind of a no holds barred situation, which is what happened to me at the end of my sophomore year when I inadvertently came out to a dorm party in college. I had been away at my fraternity initiation the weekend I came back and was informed about how one of my fellow RAs had gotten wasted at a campus party and apparently announced that I was a homosexual. Sweet.
So when I came back to campus, I naturally confronted her about the issue because that's not something you go an announce at a party. In comparison to some of my other adverse reactions, specifically the ones paired with some bottle shelf tequila, I like to imagine that my distaste for her announcement was quite mild. However, the story about my addressing of the issue quickly escalated from me being angry, to me being angry and threatening her, to the eventual resting place of "Justin got over me in my bed, threatened my life, and yelled at me." Most people would akin my normal demeanor to that of a bear, or possibly a labrador retriever. Never had I been referred to as an "attacker" or "defendant," so it was all pretty new territory to have an order of protection placed upon me.
As I met the officer in the parking lot of the Chapman Highway Wal-Mart to get my "papers," he told that if I wanted to, I should definitely try and fight it. I could feel his hopeful vibes coming my way; if accurately executed, I could bullshit my way back into the light of justice. It would have to take some finesse, but if I could pull it off it would easily go down as my best performance in history. After considering the several angles I could use, I decided one completely stereotypical, but beneficial ideology: you can be gay, or you can be Chris Brown, but you can't be both. My plan for the morning of the trial was to do the opposite of everything I had been prepped to do my entire life. It was time to channel every gay bone in my body, and when I was called in front of the judge, I needed to work that courtroom like a runway, and it better be fabulous.
That morning, I wore my dark rimmed glasses and my subtle, yet plaid, pants. I put as much product in my hair as the follicles would allow and found the tie with the most feminine pattern I could on it. Everything had to match, but it all had to say, Hey guys, the reason this matches so well is because I'm a stereotypical gay man, which is ironic. I had spent years perfecting the kind of mannerisms and clothing that would convince someone that I was not gay. I hadn't made any clear cut decision about who or what I wanted to be, but I was sure that up until that day, if there was one thing I never wanted anyone to think I was (joking or not) it was gay. And that's a travesty, the idea that anyone would spend their life hiding from something because they've been convinced that the world hated them.

The day I walked into the courtroom, I was obviously nervous, but I had spent hours upon hours rehearsing what I wanted to say. I mean, for God's sake, I wanted to run for office one day... I already had Rebecca's ousting to deal with as well as all the deer heads back on the walls at home, the last thing I needed on my political platform was a one-time order of protection. It wasn't worth explaining at the Democratic National Convention, so it had to be extinguished now. I walked up to give my testimony, which is apparently not very conventional in an order of protection hearing as one or both parties usually lacks the ability to speak coherent English, and answered every question asked with grace and poise. For all intensive purposes, I was essentially a contestant in the Miss American competition. I decided to defend myself, partly because that's what an A class actor would do in a big budget Hollywood movie... but mostly because my family had absolutely no money. My closing argument was I don't think we should worry about whether I'm going to hurt this girl; I think we should be worried about this girl hurting herself. Beautiful finish, and the judge and what people were randomly strewn across the courtroom had nothing to do but sympathize with this eloquently-spoken, outstandingly-matched homosexual boy who just ended up getting outed at a vulnerable time in his life. The charge was eventually dropped, and my reputation slowly returned to the sparkling clean image it had always been.
But if I learned anything from the situation, it's that bullshit, if properly utilized, is the strongest drug of all. We're talking Schedule 1 kind of addicting.
And essentially, I owe a great deal of my life to bullshit because as I've learned in recent months, hard work and dedication... even intelligence... just puts you in a category or somewhat upstanding people. I've sent out 15 resumes and only heard back from one job, and that was to tell me that my experience wasn't relevant enough for the position. I was only able to score one PR job, and that's for 10 hours a week. The whole thing is a little devastating because you want to believe that determination will send you shooting to the top, but sadly, that's not always the case. However, the one characteristic that has never let me down is the ability to bullshit, and when you pair that with all the other qualities, you really can't go wrong.

Butterfly Pin, etc.

The grieving process is different for everyone. Some people cry for days on end and some people completely ignore the issue all together. I've even seen some people take up entirely new hobbies, exerting all of their energy into pottery or collecting Precious Moments figurines. It's a mystery as to how the human brain works and how very different we are from each other in our coping mechanisms. Actually, some would even say that my love for writing come out of my own grieving process when my mamaw died. At five years old, I took to pen and paper trying to imitate my Aunt Wanda who wrote a poem about mamaw's death. I started writing poetry, continued on to fiction writing, all the way up until today when I write about otherwise uneventful stories through an overzealous perspective. But when I think about what I took from mamaw's death, it isn't the writing. It's something else entirely.

Death was never explained to me... dying was more like being
chosen for a reality show and less about, you know, actually
being sick or old.

In thinking about my obsessive compulsive disorder which was initially loosely diagnosed by a doctor in eighth grade, I began wondering what were the first signals that I might have it. All of the weird impulses that I had growing up had seemed normal, so it took work to think about all of the oddities as anything other than a healthy habit. But, it had to be mamaw's death. If you talk to someone with legitimate obsessive compulsive disorder (which means not someone who likes to have their pencils sharpened or the counter clean), you'll find out that there's this weird necessity in doing whatever action is being done. Because no one ever explained death to me any more complexly than "a time when God decided you are ready to join his army," I automatically considered death like a lottery system. When your number is called, you're up on the front lines; none of it had to do with being old or possibly having a debilitating disease... it was more about, you know, just the Lord being like Come on down, you're the next contestant for Heaven and then you would run up toward Heaven clapping wearing an enthusiastic tee shirt saying "I Want to Be a Barker Beauty!"
So, as a naturally superstitious person, I decided that the best way to ward off death from my family was to wear the butterfly pin that my mamaw bought me before she died. Why did my mamaw buy me a butterfly pin? That's an excellent question; I'll be more than happy to answer it when I figure out why she always called me Lucy. (I'm inclined to think that maybe she wanted a granddaughter). I would wear it to first grade everyday, and then, when that wasn't enough, I would spend the entire day imagining my mom was going to die on the way to work. Nothing could exhaust my worry that everyone in my life was going to die, so then, my mom made the error of turning the tables back on the entity that I was absolutely terrified of: God. She would start brining be bracelets home that she would buy at the gas station: WWJD bracelets. She told me to wear them, and when I got worried, I should look down at them and pray to God that He would take care of her, which seemed counterproductive because it was my understanding that God was the one grabbing up people like an arcade claw machine.
Eventually, the WWJD bracelets lost their charm, so I began some of the more obvious tics that come along with OCD. The first one I can remember was stretching my lips out, which included repeating an expression that one Jenna Marbles might have made famous. Something that I'm sure Jenna Marbles is not aware of is that if you do that face every four minutes (exactly) like I did as an 8 year old, you will acquire sores on the corners of your lips. When picture day came in second grade, I am one of what I'm assuming is probably twelve second graders in the entire world that could have convincingly made people believe he had oral herpes. There I was, skinny as a rail because I threw up all the time, sporting an oversized polo with seven WWJD bracelets on my arm, a purple butterfly fixed over my heart, and two giant sores on either side of my face. The first time I heard the f-bomb was when I took home the proofs from my pictures. My mom showed my dad, and I remember him saying "Oh f--- this. This has got to stop." But no matter how ridiculous I may have looked, I obviously had not accurately expressed the urgency of my bracelet wearing/pin adorning/lip stretching ways. I seemed to be the only one in the world that understood that if I didn't do these things... someone would die.
Eventually, I would move on to bigger and better tics than the lip stretching, mostly because it took weeks for my lips to heal appropriately. If I had continued the lip stretching, I can only imagine I would have ended up looking like The Joker from The Dark Knight, which would have made my dating life even more difficult than it already is. For a while, I moved into blinking, but that seemed to make people uncomfortable, too. I would approach my teachers and blink upwards of fifteen or twenty times until they would just force me to spit out whatever question I had or just bluntly walk away, neither of which I could blame them for. As a naturally self-conscious person, I knew that I was kind of weirding people out with the odd things I did; I had to come up with a way to protect the lives of everyone I loved without it being so obvious; the whole thing became a secret mission for me.
However, that only lasted for so long. Eventually, I would start incorporating numbers and colors into the mix with every single digit numeral representing a color. And that's become the basis for just about every compulsion that happens to this day. While talking to a friend, I said, You know, I think that my compulsions have gotten better since I've been older, and then immediately found myself leaning back in my chair, and counting the corners in the room. I don't know what it is, but there's something comforting about counting corners, and I always do it when I'm nervous. Sitting in job interviews, I count the corners waiting for the interviewer to come in, praying that there's not some kind of camera detailing the pre-interviewee's behavior. Then when they come in, I have to coach myself mentally Justin, keep eye contact. The last thing you need to do is lose it in the middle of your explanation of your skill set and pull an Exorcist and start glancing from corner to corner. It makes people uncomfortable, and then they just want to get away from me.
And that's something I've had to learn from watching people's reactions, because in my mind, what I do is perfectly logical. You obviously need to rub the entire corner of that cabinet to ensure that this entire building doesn't blow up. God, if these people only understood how many times you save their lives daily. Psych! Now you need to rub it four times for good measure. It's a complicated one because it's something I've just come to know as a normal thing. As for the present, I'm not sure if the people in my life have just come to accept that the edges of objects need to be caressed or if I've just mastered the art of being subtle to an extraordinary level. Occasionally, I forget to keep myself in check when I'm in public, as I caught myself rubbing the back of someone's chair while serving tonight. As the man finally turned around, I caught myself and said to him, Don't know who put that weird scuff on the back of your chair, but we can't have you sitting in that, can we? There was obviously no scuff, just some weird 22 year old massaging the back of his chair for sport. But if I don't buff out the imaginary scuffs in his chair, then who will?
I have a weird feeling that these impulsions that started to try and save the people in my life could very well be the death of me. It would be ironic, wouldn't it? One of my personal favorites is driving down the road and I feel it: Justin, the obviously solution to your roadside anxiety is to run your hand along the steering wheel ten times; oh, someone else is in the car? They'll love it. And it's very obvious they don't, because they usually catch on around lap three or four, and by lap nine, I can see their eyes widen as if they're trying to silently communicate If your hand catches the wheel one time, we're going to fly off this overpass. And you know what? I can't say I haven't thought the same thing myself... four times, consecutively.

Secondhand Girlfriend

As everyone knows, graduate school is for people who could not find the love of their life in undergrad. That's why it simultaneously pains me and pleasures me to see the end of my personal wedding season come to an end today... at least for a couple months. This past summer, marriage has practically become the new black, and with the possibilities that could unfold this November, my likelihood of marriage could go from potentially either gender back down to one, which would mean that for tax purposes, I would have to go back to seeing only women. Sigh, oppression.

And for any conservative Republican reading, I would like to let you know that if that does happen and the idea of gay marriage is extinguished by the reign of Romney/Ryan that my chances do not just dwindle from 100% likelihood of marriage down to 50%... no, no. It dwindles down to about 17%. And I'm here to tell you why: you see, when it comes to the dating world, I'm not the most confident person. Sure, I can be your man's man after a couple shots of tequila and something along the lines of a horse tranquilizer, but I'm not the kind of person that just randomly walks into a bar and shoots someone a line. I don't say any of the words on the following list: tits, the p-word that I won't even spell out, breastacles, rack, and the newly familiar term "hot pocket" (unless you're talking about the edible ones with chicken, in which case, yes, I will have one). Honestly, I'm more of the guy that you run into at Starbucks who spills his Pumpkin Spice Frappucino on your shirt, then incessantly offers to buy you a new wardrobe with money he doesn't have, and then somehow you connect with him over the free form jazz playing overhead that neither of us understand. Call me awkward, but after that moment... I'm a keeper.
But the problem is, I haven't been in many Starbucks lately because I'm pretty sure when I check my BB&T bank account the balance reads: three nickels, an orange piece of paper, and a two-thirds used tube of Burt's Bees, which leads me to believe that my bank knows way too much about what's in my pockets.
So instead, I'm left at the mercy of the people that I just happen to pass by. This week, in one of my graduate classes, I met a girl. She's cute and has an adorable personality, and honestly, the whole thing was a little intimidating. I haven't date a girl in years, and as soon as I brought her over to my apartment to watch a movie, I was immediately reminded why. As she was on her way over and I was desperately trying to simultaneously tuck in the couch cover and hide the duct tape penis that my roommates had made, it hit me. When I find myself legitimately interested in a girl, one of my male friends steps in, says something that automatically qualifies me as either: weird, a full blown homosexual, or sexually inept; and then moves in to claim his "territory." That could also be another downfall of mine; I've never believed any human to be territory... I'm pretty sure we extinguished that in 1863, but then again, I was an English major, not a History. But what a terrible feeling it was, hiding the silver penis with clammy hands because I knew that because of past occurrences, my fate was sealed. And in the middle of what could have been construed as a menopausal hot flash, I had another kind of flash... a flash back.
My experience with dating in high school was about as in depth as a mirage puddle in the desert. I had two girlfriends, and those "relationships" lasted about fourteen minutes. It wasn't until I got to college that I had my first experiences with this friendship thievery or "lady jacking," as I come to later coin it. My freshman and sophomore years were dedicated to an on again, off again, somewhat polygamous relationship with my friend who actually got married today. Though we would just refer to it as passionate, most would probably have called it abusive on several different levels. Then, I spent the latter half of my sophomore year pining after a fellow RA who I'm pretty sure was dating another guy for the duration of that crush, which eventually led to the end of the semester, which I'm sure will be covered in a future post.

However, it was the summer after sophomore year that I fell for this tiny, petite blonde with giant blue eyes. If you will travel back to 1982 with me for a moment, I'm pretty sure that Michael Jackson would have referred to her as a PYT (Pretty Young Thang). And as interested as this tenderoni (last Michael Jackson reference, I promise) seemed to be in me, it all fell apart that she, my friend John, and me went night swimming. The night seemed to be a blast, and I was confident that I was making stellar progress on the flirting front, but then again, I always think I'm making good progress when it comes to flirting. I have the same problem when I play Mario Kart; I always think I'm winning until I glance around and notice that everyone is waiting on me to finish lap 2 so that I will be disqualified and move on to the next race. I had told John how much I liked her, and like most of my guy friends, he promised me that he would play wing man and totally get me the hook up. I never really wanted the "hook up" because if I learned anything in 7th grade sex ed, it was that when you have sex with someone, you're having sex with everyone they've ever slept with as well. As a twenty-two year old, that statement only reinforces my absolute fear of germs which may also explain why I've avoided traditional intercourse like the plague.
After night swimming was over, John offered to take Caitlin back to their dorm because it was so late, and that he'd see me tomorrow. Such a rookie error. John had left his phone in my car that night, so when I went driving the next day, I didn't notice it until the phone lit up... a text from Caitlin. "John, I'm so sorry for what happened the night before. I'm so embarrassed. We can't tell Justin." Luckily, Taylor Swift was playing in the background: something hateful and determined to keep me focused on driving instead of pulling a u-turn to drive through their dorm. And it wasn't soon after that my ex-girlfriend called me to ask if I had heard that John was caught have sex in the bathroom of Gibson last night.
However, while I may not be good at getting the girl or solidifying any kind of flirty moment, I am exceptionally skilled at exploiting these moments to their full potential. I picked John up later that day to give him his phone back, and I waited until he was buckled in. I wanted us to be on the highway; I wanted to make sure that even if he jumped out of the car that he would have some serious road burn to show for it. I turned to him and said, "So when were you going to tell me that you and Caitlin had sex in the bathroom?" He was frozen and with no place to go.
It was one of my weaker performances because I wasn't used to one of my friends taking someone I was interested in and doing the sex with them. But, as I joined a fraternity, I became much more well-versed in the politics of flirting, dating, and having sexual intercourse in the bathroom. Soon, it became sport to me, with my strongest showing being at a fraternity party when I announced that two people had just got done having sex upstairs. Our freshman year, we were instructed to find our vocation: the thing that made us happiest in the world. I assume that thing was supposed to be tied to some kind of monetary income, but alas, I had found mine elsewhere: exploiting and humiliating people that had sex with people I was interested in. Eventually, I would return the finishing punch to John my senior year by comparing the passed out girl on his bed to a "sitting rabbit that a hunter would never shoot" until she came to and ran out of his room. Then, I would go and make out with someone else in another room in the apartment (see A Series of Brief Apologies to College Flings).
Sadly, the first story went awry anyway as the girl I invited over has a boyfriend, so like most cases with me and girls, I will assume the role of her brother/gay best friend/super cool guy friend, which is completely okay because I excel in those roles anyway. It is refreshing to know that with the very small number of people I've met in the DC Metro area, there really is much less personal competition in my life. However, the gay population is much higher up here, so when it comes to men, I guess I'll have to keep my dukes up. But as a romantic contender, I like to believe that I have grown as a fighter and a flirter. There are no rules in adult world; it's no holds barred. Pat Benatar said it best, Love is a battlefield. Oh, Pat... you're too insightful for your own good.

Turkey and Dressing (Up in Drag)

Southern Etiquette (which is a magazine that I completely made up for writing purposes) clearly states: "If there's something that you would like to say to someone or a conflict that you would like to resolve, it's best to not address it until that person is out of the room. At that point, you can talk as freely as you want without the person actually hearing it. Eventually, you will have told enough people that you feel like you have an army of people in your corner, obviously proving your validity in feeling the way you do, and then you don't have to talk about it anymore." And I suppose, when it comes to my extended family, there's a lot of quiet time at family gatherings.
In looking at the statistical breakdown of my family, there are thirteen cousins on either side: 4 of us graduated high school, 1 of us went to college, 7 of us have either been pregnant or aided in the gestation process, 5 of us have done jail time, and 1 of us left our baby on the side of the road (hashtag faux pas). And when I say "us" in that exhaustive list of familial accomplishments, I am not included in that "us" after the college stat. I keep tabs on this information in case I'd like to ever kill someone or needed to come out as gay to my family. These facts and figures are my ace in the hole... yes, I stabbed that man fourteen times, but I didn't have a baby out of wedlock! You remember that next time you say you're disappointed in me. I remember my freshman and sophomore years of high school as all the Kirkland kids were heading/dropping out; I did my best to salvage the name--with mine and Casey's work combined, we did what we could.
But with all those numbers, there's some things that are terribly difficult to dodge. Like, if I legitimately killed someone, I think that my crime would override all the out-of-wedlock babies produced, even the ones named after Disney princess characters (i.e. Belle, Jasmine, etc). As for the "gay bomb," if I ever needed to tackle it, I believe that would be one that I could probably maneuver around given the amount of ammunition my family has given me. I mean, the odds would definitely be in my favor, but I would imagine that a meeting with a bomb that size would be very calculated. For instance, I would probably wear a cardigan and some nice jeans... possibly my dark-rimmed glasses. I would bring laminated copies detailing all the things that my generation of family members had done, and I would follow with a finely printed thesis statement containing the heavy news at the very bottom of the page. I would remove all sharp and/or explosive objects, and I would make sure that all hot liquids were out of reach: coffee, boiling water... or gravy, which is why I was so surprised when cousin Matt/Demitrya decided to make his drag debut to our family on Thanksgiving.
And looking back at our family history, this never should have been a giant surprise to anyone. Matt was easily my favorite cousin growing up, taking the number one spot with ease from 1994 all the way to 2007. There was really nothing that he could have told me about himself growing up that would have made him any less in my eyes, but in retrospect, I should have picked up on the tell tale signs that would eventually lead to that plot twist of a Thanksgiving in 2007.
Matt/Demitrya would watch us in the summer when we were younger, probably to make sure we didn't burn the house down (or more accurately because I proved myself unworthy of staying at home because I would repeatedly try and make Casey think I had died by laying the floor and acting unconscious). At times, he would stay with us for an entire week without going home, and it was amazing because it was like having an extra older brother at my disposal. Despite Dad's attempt to involve Matt/Demitrya in other activities like hunting or fishing, our summer activities always returned to watching Spice World at least 25 times or doing an uncomfortable amount of research on Cher. And don't get me wrong, I personally hold strong to the philosophy Every boy, ever girl, spice up your life! but more than anything, I wanted to hang out with him. If he had suggested we go steal a car and go drive off a cliff, I would have emphatically tagged along. After several months of summer research on Cher, we decided that the "piece de resistance" would be seeing her in the last of a string of farewell tours.
If you go back and ask my Dad, who accompanied Matt/Demitrya and I to the concert, his opinion of the affair, he would most likely respond, Cher was sexy as hell, but those women around us sure did have big feet. It took me about three years after the concert to realize that all those women were actually men: men with green tinted hair and giant high heels. Apparently, sans a gay pride parade, there is no larger central location for drag queens than a Cher concert. But with all those subtle nuances, it shouldn't have surprised us when Matt showed up as Demitrya (known to her closest fans as the shortened Demi) for Thanksgiving. Mom had taken me into her bedroom and prepped me on the situation, obviously detecting that one day I would be going into public relations and would probably need to pull out as much charm and fluid communication as possible so that our doublewide didn't explode off the top of Evans Road. So, I waited nervously by the door for his arrival, trying to guess what kind of outfit he would be wearing. Throughout most of high school, Matt was known for fitting into the "Goth" category; for anyone who is not a Generation Y member or an avid fan of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the Goth subset of high school society lent itself to a collection of black clothing, paraphernalia from bands associated with popularized school shootings, and chains.
As the final trimmings were being put on the deviled eggs, Demitrya approached the door in a stunning, yet slightly predictable hybrid of lady's clothing and Goth fashion. A solid play for her first showing. I remember staring at the top, noticing the black wig and subtle (if you can legitimately call any drag make up subtle at a South Knoxville holiday gathering) make up first, then the black cami-style top, which led directly into the black skirt accompanied with fish net stockings. Oh yeah, and there were platform boots; I'm no Anna Wintour, but the outfit definitely made a statement... amateur in comparison to the complex stylings of Demitrya today, but enough to not only drain all the blood from my dad's face only to send even more surging back five minutes later. And the most fantastically awkward part about it was that it was treated with the same social decorum as if someone had farted in the room. And in my world, where I treat everything as if it is a television show... there really couldn't have been a stronger November Sweeps episode that season.
I scoped the immediate location for weapons, and it made me more nervous than if I had closed my eyes and guessed. As my family is a firm believer in second amendment rights, there were at least five guns readily available, as well as all the steak knives, numerous hot liquids for Thanksgiving purposes (namely, the gravy... I kept imagining my dad impulsively grabbing the gravy and just throwing it across the room), and last but not least, an assortment of deer and duck calls on small ropes. My concern for the animal calls was less to do with the call itself and more the durability of the small ropes that could be used for strangling purposes. I was sitting in the middle of the most fabulous game of Clue I had ever seen, and my main suspect was my dad (who bears a striking resemblance to Colonel Mustard). Though we all had taken the advice of the fictional, but still appropriate, Southern Etiquette, it could go down as one of the most awkward Thanksgiving feasts that has ever transpired.
As the years have gone on, Demitrya's talents have become less taboo in the family than they were five years ago. More children have been produced out of wedlock; more people have gone to jail. But like any public relations practitioner, I have my opinion inside the office and outside the office. On that Thanksgiving, all I wanted to do was keep the peace. The last thing I wanted was someone to non-chalantly bring up fish nets, whether it was to do with clothing or the actual art of fishing. However, throughout my college career, I would coerce my friends to go to gay clubs around the area, in hopes that I could spot Demitrya in action... it was like some mystery that I had to solve. I would go to one once a semester looking for him as if he were a rare Pokemon, like a Chancey or a Mew. And like all my pursuits of Pokemon Blue, Green, and Silver, my pursuits came up empty-handed.
Luckily, I've never been compelled to wear women's clothing; actually, considering the Birkenstock Trend Disaster of 2001 when my dad's repeatedly questioned by sexuality based on my desire to fit in and wear the slip on sandal that is probably one of the most disgusting things I've ever seen, I've tried to stay away from any unisexual clothing I can. But, if for any reason I ever did, I appreciate Demitrya taking the inaugural heat on that lone Thanksgiving back when. Luckily, I haven't had to drop any bombs like that yet, but with the cushion that my family has placed under me, the landing is ready in case I ever need to take the fall.

I'm Curious About The Help

Being a housewife is something that takes a lot of hard work, but I know that I'm dedicated to perfecting it because if my plan works out and I marry into money, then that's what I'm aiming to be. In a perfect world, I'd like to sit somewhere all day and watch "my stories," drink some wine occasionally, and spend the rest of my time writing... books, poetry, essays, hate letters... anything that involves a pen/paper or rather, keys/fingers. But I don't want to be the basic kind of housewife; I don't want a maid. There are three things that I don't trust people with: my bathroom, my laundry, and most importantly... my food. Plus, having a maid reminds me too much of human elitism, which reminds me of slavery, which really kind of bothers me.
And you would think that human elitism is something that most of us have come past, but I'm sadly reminded in small ways every day that we're not. For instance, my friend Jamila used to cut a great deal of people's hair in the building I lived in during college. Whenever I needed a precise buzz cut, I would consult Jamila and in ten minutes flat, I would have a neat hair do with trimmed up sideburns and neckline. Most people would offer to pay her, but she would never accept it. And then, another one of our friends asked Jamila if she would give cutting her hair a shot; it all seemed pretty normal until she wanted to discuss Jamila's ability. Just for a point of reference, Jamila is black, so there was a little extra weight when her "customer" sincerely responded, Wow, Jamila. You do a great job cutting hair; did you learn from your mom? Is this something you guys do in your family? Jamila, like a trooper, entertained all of her questions. I sat on the sideline amazed that she would even ask... It was as if the only two times she had ever had contact with an African American was through the movies Friday and Beauty Shop. I mean, did she know that she was playing into a giant stereotype or was she just oblivious. I decided on the latter when she responded, Did you start practicing on colored hair? Like, do you usually just work with colored people? My eyes had to be the size of saucers, as I looked at Jamila. I imagined that she would raise up her scissors and jam them into the back of this girl's neck, but she maintained her composure, as if these questions were more of a game than anything.
And it only grew from there because it was as if once she knew that the door was opened to use the word colored as a culturally acceptable way to refer to black people, she dropped the word as many times as her mouth would allow. I sat in amazement, wondering what absurd thing would come out of her mouth next... Are your colored scissors colored sharp enough to cut colored hair? Colored, colored, colored. I often found myself very thankful to be living where I was from as the person that I am because most of the prejudice I face is only from the far right... which is actually kind of most of East Tennessee, but whatever. I've never had something about myself that I couldn't hide or pretend wasn't existent; I've never had to deal with something so obvious about me being scrutinized or even ignorantly mocked. Well, until lately.
Yesterday, after coming home with Patrice from the mall, my roommate, Andrew, told me, My friend Jill wants you to cook her fried chicken tonight. She really wants it; she is going to come over tonight. Flabbergasted and exhausted from the day, I looked at him and said, Is she going to bring chicken over because I know I'm not going to go and buy it. I knew it wasn't just cooking dinner for a couple of friends... this was more like a cultural experience for her and her boyfriend, who may I state... are very nice people... but nonetheless, this was more about being able to say that they'd had "southern fried chicken." And when someone brings me chicken and offers to give me some in return for cooking it, which is more than Minnie could have said in The Help, then sure... I'll cook your chicken up. I was never really worried about the cooking of the chicken; it was more of the difficulty of explaining the process.
I knew that the night was going to be interesting as soon as Andrew told me, and Andrew knew it to. He gave me, I'm sorry, I love you eyes because he knew that if someone else was buying this chicken, then I was going to need to not just meet expectations, but exceed them. As far as I was concerned, this was not just another night of making fried chicken... this was the Olympics of Southern fried chicken, with opening ceremonies from Dolly Parton and Kenny Chesney and appearances by Tommy Lee Jones, Paula Deen, and potentially someone connected to the Johnny Cash bloodline. And you know, no one could have really prepared me for what would come last night because, like I said, I've never been at a place where I was so noticeably different from everyone else.
Andrew was helping me make dinner as Patrice and Brad watched from the counter, and when Jill and her boyfriend showed up, the festivities began. Everything was essentially done except for the chicken, but considering that there were 14 legs to cook, dinner was hardly ready. And of course, before the first leg hit the egg mixture, they were peering toward the frying pan asking questions, How do you get the breading to stick to the chicken? Oh, the egg? That's so cool! and Is this your special recipe? Did you come up with it on your own; did you learn this from your family, or have you just always known? And all of a sudden, I realized how difficult it must have been for Jamila to have not said anything because all I wanted to say back was Nope, I just shot out of my mom with a frying pan in hand. Soon, they wanted to know things about the South like if I hunted and fished, which inspired me to do the one Southern tradition that I embrace more than food: fix a rum and coke. They asked if Southern people really had all the regular narrow-minded sentiments, and as I entertained their questions just like Jamila, the grease in the pan popped out and shot onto my hand. I grabbed my hand and said, Ahh! Damn! Jill's boyfriend responded without missing a beat, That's the Southern snap I was looking for!
I was never aware that there was such a thing as a Southern snap... actually, the only Southern snap I had was one that I had desperately tried to avoid so not to perpetuate any stereotypes unpopular for a Southern boy. My Southern snap was less of a cultural thing and more of a Tyra Banks inspired masterpiece. But, what made it all okay is that it seemed like they really thought that all of these things existed, and back home, I like to believe that my Dad was sitting on our rickety porch, whittlin' a piece of wood into toys for my nineteen brothers and sisters, most of whom are married to one another. Sure, there are some things about the South that are a little awry, but all in all, I like to believe that we live like most of the rest of the nation, even if we do have a couple more banjos than the rest of the world. And I think that the biggest lesson is learning not to assume that someone's identifier is not always synonymous with the stereotype associated with it. Not all black people cut hair, and not all Southerners can cook fried chicken... especially like me.