Because You Left

On Christmas Eve and/or Christmas day, it's always a crapshoot as to who is actually going to show up for the festivities. Because of an unfortunate string of events involving beanie weenies (see Reasons I Elected to Find a New Mamaw), a verbal altercation between my Aunt Susie and Dad, and a continual shunning of me and my brother because we read books, we no longer visit the Kirkland side of my family on any holiday other than the occasional Flag Day. As for my mom's side, there's still no set-in-stone plan, but every five years or so, the majority of us end up at once house or another and we celebrate Christmas as if nothing has ever changed.
I guess it had been a while since we had all found ourselves under the same roof because as everyone filed in, I scanned the room and realized that I hadn't seen, or just didn't know, at least a handful of people that were in the room. I was sitting at our kitchen counter, surveying the room of all these people trying to recount names and faces, when my mom asked me Do you know who that girl in the corner is? And I said, Yeah, I have no idea. I think that's Josh's girlfriend? I really have no idea what's going on. Eventually, the poor girl asked my mom if she could get a drink, to which my mom responded, Sure. First, who are you? Well, it was my cousin, Kasi. None of us had seen her in years, and I imagined that maybe she was sailing around Peru or had pulled an Elizabeth Smart on us and was living some veiled life somewhere in Utah. Once we had identified who everyone was in the room, it kind of hit me that it had been years, literal years, since I had seen some of my relatives.
I went to college relatively close, but the distance started once we had all began to grow up, I guess. People started having babies and moving to different states; we never really knew who was doing what except for that I was apparently the constant: I was in school somewhere doing something in relation to academia. Other than that, it was a free for all. The difference between then and now is that at one point, I was close enough to know what was going on. I would catch wind of family happenings on my weekend visits home, and even though I never particularly saw these people, I had the comfort of knowing they were less than an hour away if I really wanted to visit them.
But this year, I had to explain exactly why it was I had disappeared into the depths of the Atlantic seaboard. Apparently, in my rushed state, I had not reminded my immediate family to let anyone else know where I had gone or what I was doing, similarly to when they kept switching out Beckys on Roseanne. When I was explaining what I'm getting my degree in, and what I was doing, they kept asking me Why are you doing that? I thought you were doing journalism. My life had become this mystery, and when there were these cavalier bombs dropped throughout the evening about how people had changed or who they were dating, I was shocked and immediately asked for a recap. Every explanation was ended with the sentiment, oh yeah, you wouldn't know that because you left. No one ever meant anything by it, but there was this tinge of separation, as if there were some perforated edge between me and the rest of the family. I wasn't sure what it meant, but it's like in a matter of minutes, everyone had grown up and made children and/or ended up in jail or stopped believing in the celebration of Christmas.
But it wasn't minutes, and it wasn't the happenstance of six months away from Knoxville; I had left years before that, and it really didn't hit me. Everyone grew up really quickly in my family because of one decision or the other. One misuse of a condom or drunken night behind the wheel forced you to turn over your childhood card because those choices are matters that don't allow you the opportunity to go back and play with Lincoln Logs again. Me, I just happened to pursue multiple degrees and forego sex all together. We weren't the family that often played with each other, and in a way, Christmas was our only time to catch up on each other's lives. Instead of fighting to keep us together, I willingly let go of them and never considered that there would be any regret involved in that.
As the night came to an end, I stepped outside and caught Kasi, the mystery cousin, smoking a cigarette. She's sixteen. The seven year old inside of me immediately felt compelled to run inside and tell someone, but considering that she's pretty much the end of the line for my generation, it seemed kind of useless. Someone had to buy her the cigarettes anyways, so I did the cool, wise, older cousin thing and lit up with her. I apologized for my entire family's inability to identify her (in our defense: the excessive face piercings and multi-colored hair didn't help too much), and I tried to catch up on her life in the seven minutes it takes to casually smoke a cigarette. And no, you can't make up that amount of time in the course of one cigarette, but as we get older, we don't know when the next scandalous cigarette break is going to take place. So I used the moment to do what I had avoided for years because I didn't see a point in it: I tried. She walked inside because she finished her cigarette first and she was too angsty to stay outside to finish the conversation... oh to be sixteen again... but if I could have really told her one thing, it would be Please don't smoke. And don't hate everyone so much. Dress like you're sixteen and not twenty-six, and quit acting like no one understands you. We believed that no one understood us at sixteen, when in fact, we were just hoping that our lives were complicated enough to not be understood. You are much too young to be this old.
But I didn't, because I guess you have to learn all of that stuff in your own time. And I guess we've all learned it (or are still learning it) in our ways, too. My cousins have been faced with surprise children and drugs and alcohol and all these other things that I'm sure seem very dangerous and worthy of an A&E special, and maybe it is. But then there's me, who hasn't dabbled in any of those things (though I do love a Long Island Tea), but I learned the same lesson. And all it took was being away, not by distance but by priority, to teach me that anything and everything can change in an instant.

A Reevaluation of People I've Met in DC via The Hunger Games

As I am just days away from returning to The Capital, it's no surprise to anyone that I was crowned victor of the first semester of The Hunger Games: DC. In true, Katniss fashion, I did not win alone--partially because I kind of like some of the people I was around, partially because I have a distaste for blood. Yes, there were some casualties along the way, but sometimes, that's what you need to do in the face of good spirit of the game. Let's take a moment to reevaluate some of the past tributes that will not be returning for the second reaping.
If you recall some of the highlighted tributes from the first installment of The People I've Met in DC via The Hunger Games, you will remember spirited characters such as "Fish Sandwich, Fish Sandwich Boy" and "The Girl I Called Fugly Slut After Too Many Tequila Shots," both lost to the stress and turmoil of the last DC Hunger Games. I imagine that the McDonalds threw to boy out of the restaurant for loitering too long, and our chain smoking friend met her own demise as the result of her own secondhand smoke. But the games must go on, so I will evaluate the new and returning tributes based on their abilities and potential to win, based on the same scale of 1-12. May the odds be ever in our favor.

My OKCupid Match That Called Me Stupid on the Second Date
Haymitch said it best when he discussed "the careers;" sometimes it is more dangerous to be arrogant than it is to be humble. If you've never been on the OKCupid before, it's a quaint dating website that shallowly matches you with people based on questions about political beliefs, cleanliness, and the level of your sexual prowess. Eventually, you talk to someone long enough that you decide that you can't stand to be around them for more than thirty minutes, and you go on a date. Our first date was in a bar, so naturally, the majority I had to go off of was appearance. I tried to live tweet the date, but with volume being limited, I felt as if I should pay attention. The key words I got from the date were: law school, brothers, New York, country music. With that in mind, I decided on a second date. After a mile long trek around the DC monuments, a brief discussion about my move from the South, and an acute case of face molestation, the night ended with me being called stupid because I had never noticed the carousel on the National Lawn. The audacity did not earn a third date, but it could serve in the arena... at least for a time.
Training score: 6

My Cat, Batman
In a twist to this installment, one animal will be introduced into the game. I adopted him from a seemingly overjoyous family, but after a couple weeks, I have realized why they were so overjoyed: it was because they were getting rid of the cat. Batman will remind you a lot of Foxface from the 74th Hunger Games--he's fast and has a knack for really screwing things up. He's already eluded certain murder in my apartment at least four times and has a knack for hiding for days at a time. If you don't hear the cannon, you really can't assume he's died.
Training score: 11

Roommate Andrew
My personal Peeta sustained a lot of damage in the last Hunger Games, so we can only expect for him to follow the same fate as Peeta in Catching Fire. In the first Hunger Games, there was a lot of collateral damage because of Roommate Andrew, and in round two, his baking skills and agile nature with a soccer ball with serve him less faithfully than his faithful attentiveness to the show Dexter. The competitors in this arena will be much less gentle and much more skilled, but his newly displayed ability to consume a much higher volume of alcohol should benefit him. Like Catching Fire (spoiler alert!), it is assumed that myself and Roommate Andrew will still be a forced to be reckoned with. The first games made him much edgier, but then again, didn't it do that to all of us?
Training score: 8

The VP Who Always Tells Me My Clothes are Fabulous!
Okay, so maybe this is a comparison better drawn to Caesar Flickerman than to an actual tribute, but it's my games, and I do what I want. Yes, I have found him to challenge me fashionably in ways I never expected to be, but he's proven himself to be quite the sharp witted competitor. His evaluation of my daily outfits (the vest put me on the "hot" list, my risque use of Chuck Taylors put me on the "not" list), not only intimidated me, but also pushed me to think in ways I hadn't before. If he applies that kind of analysis to his competitors, he should have no problem taking out at least a couple players. However, if the arena's conditions happen to compromise the pleat in his pants, he could be gone before you can say "cornucopia."
Training score: 4

"Too Hungover To Make The Brunch Date We Had Arranged" Girl
Was still too hungover to make it to the Hunger Games. She was killed immediately by the Capital.
Training score: 1

Skinny, Skinny Nora
"Skinny Skinny Nora" who believes obese children should be informed of their obesity is obviously one of the careers in these games. She once endured the scrutiny of frat boys drawing on her cellulite with markers. Because careers always seem to last at least halfway through the book (or movie, if you're totes lazy), I expect that her beauty will push her forward. However, her inability to relate to many people on the unhealthy end of the BMI chart will surely come to hurt her--hopefully not in the same way that Clove or Glimmer went out. Sadly, she will eventually go to that big apple in the sky, which means she has a fashion internship in New York where no one can ever be skinny enough. Le sigh.
Training score: 5

The Man Who Gave Me a Cigarette in the Bar Bathroom
On a night that involved two Long Island Teas, a bottle of wine, and at least three beers, I wasn't looking my best... consider it that moment when Katniss got burned really bad by the fireballs in the woods. In a semi-inebriated stupor, I queried a man in the bathroom for a cigarette, and he gladly gave me one. He asked if I had any change in return, but alas, I only had my Burt's Bees... which I tried to give him. He politely declined. In a way, he was my Rue. Though we were only together for a short time, I will always remember that kindly black man in the bathroom, and I will forever treasure that Newport that he gave me out of the kindness of his heart. He will inevitably meet the same fate as Rue, and I can only hope I'll see him in that big bar bathroom in the sky.
Training score: 9 (just cause he was really great, you know?)

"Rides of Whales" Kelli
Inevitably, in every second installment there has to be a Finnick. A suave, alluring specimen with the ability to charm the pants off the competition and/or drink from anyone's drink in the bar who has an abandoned straw to offer. Kelli proved her strength as the likable tribute, making friends with any and every tribute she encountered. Her personality is only matched by her brute strength to ingest many McNuggets with the conviction only a previous victor can. A career in a different way than "Skinny, Skinny Nora," Kelli has the proven ability to last for days in the arena, but may find difficulty when it comes to befriending fellow tributes.
Training score: 10

All The Pretty Girls

Today, about thirty minutes before I was supposed to go on a date, I got a text message from the girl saying that she was going to have to cancel, for an unprecedented second time... in three days. The first time that she cancelled, she said that she was too hungover from the night before to be able to meet up with me, and then after asking her on a second date, she accepted and then backed out in a frame of only 18 hours... a personal best for me. Ironically, I did not go into the thankful nature that I probably should have... as far as I know, I could have avoided a tumultuous relationship of flakiness and alcoholism. She could have been one of those girls who visits the club a little too often, which is a high possibility considering that in the week we've been texting, most of the texts have been exchanged in a drunken state. But that's not what crossed my mind. What crossed my mind is that she was trying to escape a date with me; it became all about looks and insecurity, and I was transported back to sixth grade... back to Courtney.
Courtney Everett was the first girl that I ever cared more about than her Fruit Roll-ups. She poked be in the back with a pencil during homeroom, and in the most He's Just Not That Into You kind of way, I was confident that meant that she liked me. I used to imagine, as a 12 year old, what our life would be like together in the future, and eventually I wanted to ask her out. After weeks and weeks, I mustered up the courage to ask her to be mine forever, and she told me that she didn't want a boyfriend. A week later, she was dating Jonathan Mitchell. I was devastated.
I was always kind of surprised how part of sexual education, which was more of a course in abstinence and scary pictures of chlamydia, was geared toward (a) telling girls that they were important and attractive and they should defend their bodies and (b) telling boys to not stick it in whatever is walking by. I'm not suggesting that boys should do that, but I can't tell you how many times I stood in front of the mirror as a thirteen year old, inspecting my body, evaluating my lips and nose and eyes, trying to figure out why it was that I found myself so unattractive. That insecurity is a problem that has continued forward, and even though the thought of it was one of the most emasculating things a boy could speak of, I felt like I couldn't be the only person feeling that way.  And even if I was the only guy in the world that had ever felt that way, surely the person I was inside could offset the way I felt about myself on the outside.
I held on to that thought, while realizing that attraction played a huge part in the dating world. I began to watch the attractive people I was around to try and understand how they worked and who they really were... without the skin and the hair and the facial symmetry. As we were rounding out junior year, one girl in my class began talking about the kind of people that graduated from our high school. She's pretty in that obvious kind of way. She went on to say, The problem with our community is that there are so many poor people. How can you expect them to have children that succeed, when they don't even care if they succeed themselves? I was nervous because you don't want to take on the beautiful, but I turned around and said, You know, Lindsay. You're pretty. You're probably going to marry a gorgeous guy and have gorgeous children and live in a gorgeous house... but you have an ugly heart. And your kids will hate you, and your husband will cheat on you, and while you're rich and successful, you'll be asking why you hate your life so much. She was stunned, and it was the first moment in my life that I had genuinely considered that maybe attractiveness is not what rules the world.

Flash forward six years, and I'm graduated from college and living in this brand new city and hadn't been so shaken by looks in some time. I had grown into my skin (and my weight) to some extent and had a better grasp on who I am as a person, but when you're thrown into this new world with new people, you can't help to be nervous and doubtful. It had never resurfaced me until everyone in my apartment had started this online dating stint, a venture I had been apart of for months before either of them, and then all of a sudden you feel like you're in this weird competition measuring yourself against the people you're living with. And no matter how shallow it may be, you want to win. You want to be the Regina.
One of my roommates began receiving visits to his profile and emails from the website telling him that since he has been rated so highly by so many users, he was considered one of the most attractive people on the site. Eventually, he started asking us how many profile views we had gotten, and it became evident that there was this invisible hierarchy in the apartment. I began to feel like less of a person, and all that I could see in the mirror were the blemishes--the same ones I identified at thirteen years old. In the course of a week or so, I had forgotten everything I had come to believe about intrinsic value. At best, the numbers told me that I was unattractive and undesirable. I wasn't getting those stats, so I began a new account, answering questions and inputting information from scratch.
I talked with my friend Jane, an absolutely beautiful girl, about how I had been feeling. She told me that she understood, and I couldn't help but be confused. How could someone that looks like she does ever not feel good enough? She showed me her friends, and it looked like a catalogue of Barbie and Ken dolls, each with perfect hair and the perfect feminine features and/or a jawline that could cut a diamond. I didn't know that people like that existed, and as she scanned through the pictures, I wondered who they were--is that all that they are, or is there something else inside of those people?
Today, the attractive roommate went out with a girl that I had sent a message that eventually went ignored. She resembles a Taylor Swift wannabe with the standard online dating profile interests: loves to travel, sarcastic, and really loves Bon Iver. At the end of this horrible day of rejection and dejection and all the other -ections, I was completely exhausted. I was tried of being lied to and put off and ignored by people that I had very shallowly deemed "better than me:" the girls online, my roommate, Jane's friend who I had never met. Their worth had become greater than mine just because someone else, or them in some circumstances, had decided that attractiveness meant more than personality and intrinsic value. That's not to say that an attractive person can't be a wholesome individual as well, but at the end of the day, it was me that allowed myself to feel like less of a person because I had come to value attraction more than honesty, humor, and compassion less than someone's appearance.
At the end of the conversation, he told me how much that girl and I actually had in common, and that he thought we'd get along really well. I was too mad to even consider the possibility. She ignored my message, so why even entertain the idea? And then I stepped inside my apartment and my phone buzzed because I got an email. It was the dating website, telling me that my new profile had been rated so highly by so many people that I was considered one of the most attractive people on the website... in four days. Everything kind of hit me all at once, and I was reminded of everything I had started learning way back in high school. Honestly, there's no way in four days that the website had assessed I was one of the most attractive members on the site. But once I saw that email and put the pieces together, it didn't matter... because even if you are one of the most attractive people out there, does it matter if you're missing something greater on the inside?

Riding in Cars with Boys

My mom always told me to never get into the car with strangers, but honestly, the older I've gotten, I've always had a habit of bending the rules that my mom set forth for me way back when. I have a love for strangers, especially weird ones. Luckily I never had too much of an affinity for candy, otherwise I would have ended up in the wrong Astrovan a long time ago, and then I would have ended up being the Elizabeth Smart of the East Tennessee community. Regardless, I've managed to make it twenty-two years based on the kindness of strangers, and it's honestly a mystery as to how I have managed to not be murdered.
I guess it probably dials back to the fact that I love people, no matter who they are because everyone has an interesting story to tell. I've never really cared what someone looked like or how dangerous they looked... I always cared more about how they got there and if they were willing to tell me about it. I don't have many regrets in life, but one of the moments that stands out to me most distinctly was during my sophomore year of college. My parents had asked me to meet them at a car dealership because my mom was getting a new car (little did I know, we were actually trading in my clunker Jeep [may he rest in peace] for a car for me). As I turned off the interstate, there was an old man with a Duck Dynasty type beard walking down the road with his thumb out. I was immediately stopped at a red light because the Knoxville infrastructure somehow legitimized putting a stoplight on the off ramp from I-40 to Emory Road. Even from a distance, we locked eyes for just a moment. I smiled and nodded at him, and he returned the favor. I'm sure most people would have summed it up as just another vagrant looking for money or a free ride, but I can't tell you how many times I've wanted to go back and pick him up. From then on out, I had a stronger itch than ever to collect strangers on the road and put them in my car, kind of like a collection of hitchhikers.
So, after a couple years of waiting, I got my opportunity. The evening after my friend Dixie took me on one of the most painful hikes I've ever been on, we were completely exhausted on the way back toward campus. As we were navigating the Smoky Mountains tourist traffic, we came upon a young man with a giant pack on his back loaded down with all sorts of goodies hanging off of it. I looked at Dixie and asked if we go pick him up, as if he were some kind of stray kitten lost on the side of the road. Either way, I saw it as an opportunity because first and foremost, we had an opportunity to help another human being... and on the off chance that he was a crazed lunatic, I finally had an opportunity to test my self-protective skills with the metal pipe I carry in my car. We took about a mile deliberating the options before I made the executive decision to go pick him up.
He told us about hiking the Appalachian Trail and how his trail name was Leaf, as his walking stick was stabbing me in the neck from the backseat.  He was asking us questions about our lives, but not in the simple "everybody talks like this" kind of way, but more like if Ralph Waldo Emerson hopped in your backseat after a couple weeks alone in the woods. We ended up letting Leaf out of the car about two thirds a mile down the road, so we weren't actually that helpful at all in getting him where he was going. I had (kind of) helped a hitch hiker though, and I didn't get stabbed, so I considered an overarching victory.
Since then, I hadn't found myself in a vehicle with someone I didn't know up until just recently. DC is a bustling place where no one ever really knows each other because people move in and out so quickly that by the time you've introduced yourself, they're closing the door on a UHaul. But this week at work, I was asked to take a taxi from our office across town to deliver some materials to a client. I tried not to show my nervousness, but I didn't have any knowledge as to how you make this work. I mean, I had a couple of movie references, but most of the time, nothing in real life is like the movies. My plan of action was to go to the edge of the street and hold out my hand, but if they didn't seem to be slowing down, I would leap onto the hood until they came to a red light, then hop off and quickly dive in the back door. Luckily, the first one I saw stopped.
The ride was fantastic: a nice greeting once I got in, simple address request, light classical music on the way there. I was exhausted this week, so I took the twenty minute ride to collect my thoughts and just reflect on the week. My mind hasn't stopped lately, as I've been trying to get a handle on all of my 20-something thoughts. I've been thinking about how I want to approach my career and finals, and how being single during Christmastime is a total buzzkill. I wondered if I'd ever get married, and then I wondered what shade of leather I would make all the furniture in my "man room," when I was a fifty year old bachelor. It was so great that I was even looking forward to the ride back. But when I got in the taxi on the way back, there was no classical music. I didn't have time to begin my in depth life-changing contemplations/start planning the interior decorating for my bachelor pad because the taxi driver was too busy telling me how to hail a taxi properly. Apparently what I did wasn't hailing a taxi, as much as it was waving at cars going by, as if I knew the driver or if it was a parade. I knew it was going to be a very long taxi ride back.

About two minutes into the drive, he asked me if I smoked. Nervous, I answered, Yeah, I'm sorry because, you know, I'm obligated to apologize for each of my life decisions. He told me, Oh, it's fine. It's your body and your decision... at first, I thought that was it, which would have been a refreshing turn of events, but he followed up with, you know that smoking will kill you, right? which was a hard sentence to comprehend through his Dominican accent. It makes you die a slow painful death. That's why you've coughed so much since you've gotten in. It's already happening. I don't have any addictions in the world, except for women. I'm 58 years old, and I sleep with too many women. It wouldn't be a problem if I weren't married. Cue his extremely loud laughter and my nervous hiccups in the back. It all made sense to me: my mom didn't warn against me riding in the car with strangers because it was dangerous... she warned against it because people are really friggin' weird and kind of annoying sometimes. He went on to ask me if I had a girlfriend, and then told me that if I didn't get on it soon, I was going to be 50 looking around... wondering why I was still alone. I took his advice pretty hard until I reminded myself that he's married and sleeps around with all kinds of people. Guessing that I had become uncomfortable, due to my nervous texting and constant shifting closer to the door, he told me that he would leave me alone.
I felt bad because as weird as the conversation was, I felt like my body language was saying, Hey Dominican cab driver. I don't like your or your extramarital affairs. Stop talking, when it reality, all I was trying to say was, Hey Dominican cab driver, stop talking. After about three minutes of silence, he chimed in with, I can make excellent empanadas. There was no segue or any previous indicator that we had talked about empanadas, but because I was afraid I had already hurt his feelings, I took the bait. He went on to tell me about how he tried to contact Starbucks' corporate office to market his empanadas, but they didn't want his recipe. Eventually, they would pay. He was going to open up his own empanada business, and if I was interested, I could join him. He fries them instead of baking them. I think the latter half of the conversation was in Spanish because I couldn't understand what he was saying anymore. Eventually, things got quiet again.
At this point, we had hit dead stop traffic, and I was paying to sit in a cab and listen to him talk about empanadas. After about two minutes, he told me that people that smoke have to carry tanks of oxygen around and wear masks. As the meter kept rolling, I knew I had to make a quick getaway. This man had painted my future as a 50 year old, empanada-businessman, who was lonely but actually died around 34 from smoking. I asked, Hey, I can get off here, if that's cool. He said, your destination is still five blocks away. Desperately trying to escape the car, I said, Oh, that's fine. I like to walk, and I can get Starbucks on my way back to the office. Shit. He hates Starbucks, Justin. I quickly handed him the money and leapt out of the backseat in the same way that I thought I would have to leap in.
In the end, maybe it isn't such a good idea to ride around with strangers. I know that one day, I'll tell my children about the perils of riding in cars with strangers, but I won't scare them out of it with ambiguous stories of men in van with candy and ill-intentions. I'll tell them about how sometimes strangers do psychedelic drugs and talk over your head in that annoying, transcendental way. I'll tell them about how sometimes they criticize your way of life and then implore about why you don't have a sex life. And most of all, I'll take them to Starbucks to have that conversation, and we will most certainly not be ordering empanadas.

An Open Letter to Santa Claus

Hello Santa,

It's nice to talk to you again--I send warm wishes from the United States capital. As I'm sure you already know, 2012 has been quite a difficult year, and I would like to start by saying it's not my fault. Looking back on 2012, I know that there are things that have probably led you to believe that I deserve to be on the naughty list. Well, those things are lies. Lies on lies on lies. As I have come to understand, you live in the same house in Heaven with Jesus Christ, which I think is really cool and fun. You all probably talk all the time. Go Santa. But much like church and state, I believe there should be a separation between church and Christmas presents. When we blur that line between Santa and Jesus, things start getting complicated. With the whole Chick-fil-a debacle that happened earlier this year, I think it's best if religion keeps to itself when it comes to figuring out who's going to get the most boss presents this year.

After reviewing my timeline of life events, I understand that there could be some discrepancies on the table when it comes to my behavior this year. None of us are perfect, Santa, and that's why I'm completely okay with how you could have possibly grossly misunderstood my "situations" this year. We get busy, and that's just how it goes--details tend to fall through the cracks. Back in the good old days, all I had to do was brush my teeth and make my bed to keep things straight. Golly, have things changed. I have to balance a very adult lifestyle, and from what I've heard, you've replaced all those elves with Apple Store workers. You are no stranger to progressing with the times, and in that, you understand that sometimes, there are more difficult hurdles to cross than there used to be.
So, let me be frank with you for a second, Santa. I have my reasons, and just in case you saw it from the wrong side of the viewfinder, I want to give you some brief explanations on some of the highlights that may be lingering in your mind as you consider my behavioral status.

February 14, 2012---Valentine's Day
From the way that you saw it, you probably saw me as quite the glutton that evening--tearing into an oven full of groceries cooked to a Southern standard that is hard to even comprehend.  I will even admit that at the end of that night, I felt a little sick to my tummy. But to recap, let's go back and evaluate my very extensive involvement in Valentine's Days-passed. Oh, you don't remember any specific Valentine's Day particulars, other than that one February 14 when I ate a heart shaped pizza with my ex-girlfriend? That's because there haven't been any, Santa. And yes, I'm sure that you're quite aware that you are the popular girl of holiday entities, but the other holidays matter, too. So when my relationship was falling apart the very day before Valentine's Day (which should have been identified before it started, but that's neither here nor there), maybe I should have ended it there. But damn it, Santa. I deserved Valentine's Day. So I went to the store and bought groceries. I skipped class, partially because I was in delusion and partially because I needed those goodies. I cooked all the food, and my then-lover, soulmate... dare I say... reason to breathe, barely even touched the plate. The last thing I remember hearing was something about homework, then there was no kiss, then I just remember sitting there shoving chicken breasts and mashed potatoes in my mouth. Yeah, it's gluttonous. Okay, I was a mess, but in the spirit of healthy holiday competition, my desire to never waste food, and my ultimate allegiance to Christmas in the face of being duped by Valentine's Day, I think we're going to give this one to me.

Santa: 0, Justin: 1

May 5-19, 2012---Pre-Graduation Party
Oh, Santa. Let's be honest. That was a rough weekend for everyone involved. We were being thrust from the life of a college student into whatever you call this new place we live. So you can imagine that the day got easier when I went and bought myself a box of Franzia, followed by a brief trip to the EZ Stop to pick up a couple of styrofoam cups. Deep into the night as classmates were insisting that I do a wine stand, a young man came and pulled me away. Immediately, I was thankful because I thought he was pulling me away from the wine stand because contrary to popular belief, I like to enjoy my low grade white wine slowly. But soon into the diversion, he pulled me into the bushes and offered me a shot of his vodka. After a couple of shots, he leaned in to kiss me. Immediately, I had the words of leviticus and Paul Ryan singing through my head, and I denied his advances. Close call, right? Then, in a violent growl he asked, Why?! What's your problem? I explained that a) we were behind some thinly veiled bushes that everyone could see into. B) I wasn't interested. C) I had... well, I'll just tell the story. He said, No! You broke up my relationship. You know what, Santa? He was correct. I did do that. I made out with his girlfriend, and there's nothing I can do about it. I'll keep this short and sweet--I was drinking tequila, and I didn't know the specifics. I would never break up a home, and after that proclamation, I only really considered a follow up make-out once. As Miley once said, Everybody makes mistakes. Everybody has those days. Even you, Santa.

Oh yeah, I made sure the styrofoam cups were properly disposed of, away from animals.

Santa: 0, Justin: 2

August 9, 2012
I moved up to DC. I know... damn liberals. I'm not even going to fight you on this one.

Santa: 1, Justin: 2

August 17, 2012
I got those Barry Manilow tickets off of Craigslist, and I'm not going to lie... it was a steal. But considering that I had been in the DC area for a grand total of like... what? 7 days?... there was no way that I could ever understand the concept of city living. And I'll admit, there were a lot of outstanding factors to do with the Barry Manilow concert night that could be construed as reason to put me on the Naughty List this year: let's list them. (1) I got the tickets for free off Craigslist. In actuality, the old people had the tickets and wanted me to come along. Your logic is invalid, Santa. (2) I blew off people I already had plans with to go to it. In actuality, those girls often referred to me and my roommate as "the boys," and if I'm right, you'd get annoyed by that too, Santa. (3) I didn't pay my toll at the toll booth. In actuality, I had the money to pay... I just didn't have said money in change. That's also why I don't think I got a ticket when I drove through that toll booth because there has to be a solid three minutes of video footage of me holding up traffic while desperately holding two dollar bills out the window. Everyone won in the end, Santa.

Santa: 1, Justin: 3

Every Other Thursday Since September, 2012
So I drink wine a bottle at a time. Yeah? Jealous? You can't tell me that you and Mrs. Claus don't pop open a nice bottle of spiced and/or buttered rum and sit back and get crunk every once in a while. But you know what you and I have in common, Santa? You don't get behind that sleigh, and I don't either. There's nothing like some nice Grey's Anatomy and some obscure hipster music to accompany a nice bottle of $3.99 Chardonnay from the 7-11 down the road. My roommates like to consider it alcoholism, but considering that when we drink, one roommate is feeling good after three beers and the other can kill a half bottle of raspberry rum, then I think maybe we are all birds of the same feather. If you're looking for repercussions, I did have that terrible allergic reaction to Thai food while drinking the wine, so with that...

Final Score: Santa: 1, Justin: 4

And now, I'd like to include a short list/collage of things you can bring me. Considering that you have one point, you can take one of these off the list, but it cannot be the Macbook.

From Top Left, Clockwise: a lot of Frank's hot sauce, that otter hat and/or
the child wearing it, a macbook, a pyramid of Franzia (Crisp White, please)

Thank you for your time, Santa. Tell Jesus that I said hello.

Best dishes and wishes from my kitchen to yours,
Justin Theodore Kirkland, Age 22 1/2

I Don't Know Why You Gotta Be Angry All The Time

This past week, my internship told me that I had an invitation to stay four more months if I was interested; I had done a spectacular job, and if a long-term position opened up, I would be immediately considered for it. That week started off fresh from a visit from my parents and ended with a double paycheck Friday. I had plans for the entire weekend set up, and still... with all of that good news in hand, I was told a record three times that week, Justin, I would never want to be on your bad side because when someone gets on your bad side, it's pretty obvious that they stay there.
At first, I enjoyed the summation because it made me feel like Victoria Grayson from Revenge or one of those Italian men from The Sopranos. Essentially, what I took from it is that I'm kind of a badass and garner respect from the masses. But after the third time, I began to wonder... what is it that I'm doing to people?? I looked back at my archived journals to figure out when the last time I held someone at knifepoint was, and that was way back in sophomore year of college, so it couldn't be that. Naturally, because I live in my own head, I decided to take a step back and try to think about what it is that could be making me so subtly angry.
At first I was a little perplexed as to why I could ever be perceived as a bitter person because, under most definitions, I am what the kids refer to as "living the dream." I somehow manage to pay rent every month (so far), and I have a small social circle. I'm doing well in school, and my professors think I have a witty, unique personality. What. Could. Be. Missing. When the solution isn't very evident, you start looking at the particulars. I've made a bulleted list you can scan through:

• a stronger affinity than usual for the lead pipe I carry in my car
• a spike in plays of "Somebody That I Used to Know"
• an influx of Reese's wrappers hidden throughout my apartment so that no one can find them
• an odd distaste for any movie closely related to a RomCom

After some initial WebMD searches, followed by an intensive unrelated Google search of "Where Do Broken Hearts Go," I decided that maybe I was lovesick. Lovesickness is something that people don't really like to admit to because, well, it's embarrassing and looks kind of needy. But it's not something that you should ignore because when you do that, people say that you're angry, and then you just make people less apt to fall in love with you, because that's how love works.

Apparently it's not that uncommon of an issue because, as of tonight, all three occupants of my apartment have now bastardized our personalities and dignity to create online dating profiles. Love, or the lack of it, makes you do some funny things which probably explains a lot of the weird things I've done in the past when it comes to relationships. No one can say that they're perfect, and when under the influence of hormones and the ever lingering threat of getting married while you're still in shape and proudly sporting a head full of hair, you start to have a really guilty sympathy for Amy Fisher, aka the Long Island Lolita.

I can never say that I've ever shot my lover's wife in her face, and that's something that I believe is a trait to be proud of; BUT it doesn't make me exempt from the laundry list of things I've done in the face of loneliness and desperation. The effects of lovesickness come in different forms: the direct and the indirect. As I've seen from our personal experiences at the apartment, the indirect is one of the most hilarious and/or ridiculous products involved in this process. As we've been filling out our profiles, we turn to each other in a nervous panic saying, This website asked me what I'm good at... WHAT AM I GOOD AT?!?!1?!!1 It's like we've forgotten what we do on a daily basis so we turn to basic human functions (walking places, checking the mail, buckling my seatbelt) because we've forgotten any remnant of a skill set we have. And then there's me who waits seven minutes, has no profile visits, then launches into a soliloquy about the shallow nature of humanity, and that if your profile picture isn't alluring enough, you might as well consider yourself trash. It's exhausting being self-deprecating.

This is called a Tango Corte, or as I referred to it in class,
the "kiss my ass, I'm really jaded after our relationship"
thingy.

But the redeeming quality of the indirect is that you can keep it as private as you would like; the real issue begins when you start directing those feelings in different directions. At the climax of my last relationship's downfall, I was in the same ballroom dancing class as my significant other. Ironically, we were not partners, which seemingly would make continuing in the class easier. However, the effects of lovesickness knows no bounds. I took my partner, Rachel, aside and told her, Listen. Today is the tango, and I'll explain it later, but I need us to blow this shit out of the water. And by this, I mean we need to blow them out of the water. I pointed out the couple in question and explained our mission. Rachel, being my Jennifer Grey, quickly agreed. We used our long limbs to parade around the dance floor, doing as many of the cortes (see above) as possible before our instructor told us to stop having sex on the dance floor. Was I accomplishing anything of any substantial value by completely kicking the tango's ass? No. No, I was not. But in the face of feeling kind of sad and heartbroken, sometimes it helps to believe you're doing mean things to other people. And when you look back on it, the idea of what you've done is almost comical because ninety-nine percent of the time, whatever grand scheme you had going on in your head has had no significant impact on the other person's life. You unsubscribed to your ex on Facebook? Zing. Bet that one's going to burn for at least fifteen minutes.

And sure, all of these things are easy to make fun of, pity, or maybe even demean someone for because the idea of feeling so spiteful in regard to love seems a little contradictory to the process itself. But at the end of the day, we're all just kind of human. We do stupid things in the face of potentially being alone because no matter what we may say, we like the idea of having someone in our lives. I mean, I know in my case that if someone isn't at my apartment when I get in from work, I just go and talk to the pictures on my bedroom wall until I hear someone walk through the door. We're not a species of people that are meant to live our lives alone, so you can't blame people for the weird reactions they have when they are forced to go stag for a little bit. The important part of it all is that you look at yourself at the end of the day and say, You know. I'm kind of being batshit crazy right now because if you can accept the fact that the way you're acting is totally absurd, then you at least have that in check.

Acting out and doing the weird human things we do in the face of a loveless life is what makes us who we are. Some people like to "find themselves" and do yoga or swear off of (insert gender) for (insert time period). Some people resort to online methods in hopes of ending up on an eHarmony commerical one day. Then you have people like me, who apparently uses his lack of love life as an excuse to hone in on his ability to terrify people into believing that he could kill them at a moment's notice. Whatever you do to pass the time between romances is perfectly acceptable, as long as you don't shoot anyone like Amy Fisher did. Nobody likes that kind of crazy.