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.

Kissing is a Stranger's Game

I used to imagine that my first kiss would be a magical experience that should be cherished and remembered. To thirteen year old me, I imagined that kissing someone was nearly as important as full blown coital, and even as my friends were getting their first kisses and much, much more, I waited patiently--most of the time at my house on Saturday night watching reruns of Boy Meets World, wondering if I would ever have a simple love like Cory and Topanga. I wasn't sure what it would be like, so I asked my friends. Sadly, it was more like a giant secret, so eventually I went on to study movies and television. I wanted to understand what this kissing business entailed; I continued my search until I ran into the movie Man in the Moon. For those unaware, it's Reese Witherspoon's first role ever and the ending will leave you wanting to kill yourself out of depression. But to no surprise, young Reese and I had something in common: we both wanted the answer to this kissing dilemma. Her sister in the movie advised her to practice by kissing her closed fist.

Logic told me that if that was good enough for Reese, then it was good enough for me. So for a couple weeks, I went around practicing on my fist, hoping that I would gain some kind of insight as to what I was supposed to be doing, but after my dad caught me making out with my hand and told me that it looked like I was attempting to kiss a butthole, I decided to wait for the real thing. The only thing worse than being thirteen years old and not being kissed is being thirteen years old and have your dad accusing you of fake kissing a butthole.
The next few years, I lived vicariously through my slutty friends who got kissed on the regular. I used to pray for them and envy them at the same time, as any true Christian understands. I wanted them to be washed of their sin, but I also wanted what they had more than anything. Eventually, my day would come, but we've already discussed that. The first kiss is always the most dangerous because it reveals that kissing doesn't kill you... actually, the first kiss opens up the door to so much more kissing, and if you time it correctly like I did, you don't end up being called slutty like all of your early blooming middle school friends.
I stayed pretty monogamous with my kissing throughout high school, only kissing people that I was in a stable, healthy relationship with... which usually consisted of talking for 1-2 weeks, never going on a date, then deciding that you're boyfriend and girlfriend. But in the summer before my senior year, I made a fatal error and kissed someone I wasn't dating. At first, I imagined that God was scowling down at me from above, citing multiple verses of Leviticus that I hadn't reviewed in years, which made me feel even more guilty for not knowing which verses of Leviticus I had infracted. With time, the guilt subsided, and I realized the world I had stumbled onto: the world of casual kissing.
I began to realize that I had just been a victim of American prudishness--countries around the world had been kissing each other for years. Hell, depending on what part of France you're in, sometimes men kiss other men. In comparison to the rest of the world, America is nearly a celibate country. I began coming more and more open to the idea of sharing kisses with the masses, and soon, I began implementing my plan. College started out slow, but the more comfortable I got with the idea, the more people I kissed. I kissed future Broadway stars and people who would eventually drop out, but no matter the person, as long as they were open to the idea (and didn't have cold sores... ew), then I would offer up a friendly kiss at least. I found it to be my gift, or calling, perhaps.
But with every good intention comes an equally important responsibility. I soon found that the amicable, mouth hugging ideal that I had in my head was fading. I found myself in competitions, particularly with my friend Patrice, going around and trying to kiss as many people as we could in an hour. At the time, it seemed like harmless fun, but in retrospect, I had become everything I had envied and prayed for--I had become skanky. I had started kissing so many people that it didn't feel like anything anymore. It had become sport for me, so I decided to stop. College was college, but in the real world... things had to be different.

But when I was younger and wanting to be kissed more than Drew Berrymore in a 90s cult classic, my mom explained to me that people matured at different times and that we all go through things at our own pace. So when my roommate and I went over to a friend's apartment and starting drinking flavored vodka, I could feel myself being catapulted back into my sophomore year of college. My super-post-grad-maturity kicked in, and I realized that my company had never had those slutty college years that Rita from Bridesmaids warned Ellie Kemper's character about. I knew that for one night, I had to take a hiatus from my life of purity--I needed to be their Rita.
So after spending about fifteen minutes convincing one roommate that I was indeed not gay, I kissed her on the balcony, while to my surprise, my roommate was inside making out with the other roommate. Later that night, my makeout friend was throwing up in the toilet while my roommate was dancing alone to the Backstreet Boys smash record Millenium. I knew that was when the night needed to be over. Yes, it seems extremely immature, but these moments are necessary. We promised as a group that we wouldn't let it affect our friendship, and much like sophomore year, we didn't talk to them for a month. I was confused why we kept apologizing for kissing each other, as if we had taken turns punching each other in the face. I was quickly reminded that, even as a 22 year old, kissing is just something that no one really seems to embrace like the Europeans and me.
I find myself apologizing for a lot in my life because I'm naturally a guilty and nervous person, but one thing that I refuse to apologize for is kissing another person. Yes, I like to believe that I use a little more discretion these days than I have in the past, but when you come from a position where you've made out with your hand, you don't take any kisses for granted. Kissing is nothing to be ashamed of, but my new friends helped me to realize something. Casual kissing is best done with people that you don't know because casual kissing among friends leads to awkward silences and a laundry list of questions that never needed to be questions to begin with. Kissing, much like conversations about politics and watching sports, is best done with perfect strangers.

Testify!

The week after I was saved, the Southern Baptist obligation was to become baptized, so I duly scheduled for my sins to be washed away the following Sunday because... these things have to be scheduled, you know. A lot of church was like that: you came in fifteen minutes early to shake every ones hands, then you sit and doodle on your bulletin. If you're between the ages of 15 and 24 or what those below the Mason Dixon line like to call "Small Group Age," then you raise your hand above your head while older-church-goers stumble through the words of a Steven Curtis Chapman song that has come to replace the songs within the hymnals that have merely become a sturdy surface to write your offering check on.
Eventually, you wade your way through a sermon and get to the invitation where three teenagers from the youth group mosey to the front to rededicate their lives to the Lord for the third time this year as everyone nervously shuffles waiting on some unknown face to approach the alter to potentially, sincerely give their lives to the Lord. I always loved the girls that would rededicate their lives because we would always give them obligatory congratulations afterward to which they would respond, I just really wanted to give my soul back to the Lord, as if you can just petty theft from Jesus. And then afterward, we would go downstairs and have lunch. Being Southern Baptist for the first sixteen years of my life was one of the most methodically inspiring things I could have ever been apart of.
The first couple years were the best, but it's funny because the Baptism is where things started to go downhill. As I prepared to be dunked in the holy water that could burn your sins off with its chlorine content alone, the pathway to the baptismal pool was cluttered with too much Jesus. On the way to the bleach pit of Heaven, I climbed over discarded crosses and boxes of pageant pamphlets. All of these things promoting Jesus were actually blocking me from getting to my baptism, and even as a 13 year old, the whole thing seemed kind of ironic. Once I had been cleansed, I joined the youth group and said prayer requests for all the people we were worried about. Prayer requests were our chance to gossip about the people in our lives while also hanging out in the circle of God. If our lives became too uneventful, we would just say "unspoken," which alluded that we knew something that was just too juicy to say to the group.
Eventually after bouncing around three churches, I decided that maybe church just wasn't the right place for me to find God. I had decided that men (or at least the Baptists) couldn't be trusted with the power of God because all of the community softball teams and youth retreats and van rides on the way to youth retreats touched on a number of things (pun intended) but none of those were Christianity. I had been on church-hiatus for about two years, cleansing myself of all those MercyMe and tobyMac lyrics when a woman my mom works with invited me to go to church with her. At first I was kind of surprised that my mom relayed the message to me because momma didn't really trust me to be around any other adults. That might have been because our neighborhood was dotted with meth houses, or Surprise Fireworks as I like to call them. Either way, there was a very short list of people I was allowed to go out with, and apparently, fellow-telemarketer and fierce-black-woman Teresa was one of them.
Teresa had found the Lord sometime during and/or after her stay in prison. I worked as a telemarketer with them both and heard Teresa break down a remix version of "Jesus Loves Me" multiple times before. She attended a Church of Zion, and after weighing the pros and cons, I decided that it couldn't be any more misdirected than any other church I had been to. I got up early on Sunday, and mom drove me to the Weigels in East Knoxville--the same Weigels that had been on the news a week earlier because of a neighborhood shoot out. For the record, East Knoxville is not where you go to have a picnic, let alone worship the Lord... or so I thought. Either way, I took solace that the police station was just a football field's length away.
I turned to Mom and asked, Are you sure this isn't going to be awkward? Mom looked back at me and said, Don't worry. I'm sure you'll have fun. Thanks, girl. I wasn't really asking if I'd have fun or not, but that's a super consolation prize. I was obviously not dressed appropriately for what we had simply deemed "black church" in my neck of the woods. Teresa spun into the parking lot and emerged in a bright purple dress, and there I was... standing there in a white short-sleeved button up, light khaki pants, and my semi-translucent skin... just like Oh hey. I'm not a klansman. She was having trouble getting her giant purple hat out of the car, so she hollered out, Aw, shit on it-- language I'm confident that she never brings into the house of God. I was quickly ushered into her Cadillac, and we were off to meet the Lord, one way or another.

This is Black Jesus, which can be used interchangeably
with White Jesus. The interesting part of this is that
Black Jesus wears a puka shell necklace, and White Jesus
does not. Even though Black Jesus is light-skinned,
we still like him. #irony

As we entered, I felt like the entire congregation must have greeted me--it was obvious that I was the standout guest. I searched the room and found one familiar face in the back. I don't know what inspired me to say it, but I leaned over to Teresa and said, Oh, look! There's a white woman sitting back there! Not only did I look like a completely insecure racist, but an ignorant racist at that. Teresa brushed it off and responded, Oh, no baby. She's just... 'light skinned.' Her eyebrows rose above her rolled eyes. Got it. So far I had learned two things that I still hold close to my heart: you don't know what it's like to be the minority until you are the minority and we don't like light skinned black girls. But back to the story, it seemed that black church wasn't too different on the surface, but there was something obviously different. I know it sounds crazy, but it seemed like these people genuinely wanted to say hello to each other.
The service began with a string of hymns that we don’t sing at the Baptist church. We’re a very call and respond kind of people. I sing a line; you sing a line.  We sing approximately a quarter of a song, sit down, and pass notes back and forth about how slutty everyone in the youth looks that morning. In this church however, the congregation would add in makeshift lines about how God had transformed their lives. I decided to call upon my mentors at the Baptist church and clap along enthusiastically. I looked around and people were on the ground, crying. I wondered if there was call for an exorcism or if God was throwing people to the ground for shits and giggles. I kept thinking to myself why are all these people crying?
Theresa chimed in with her personal story of finding God, in verse of course, then my biggest nightmare happened. The reverend found me; just a poor whitewashed Caucasian boy sitting somewhere in the middle of the congregation.

Do you love the Lord?!, he screamed.

I bit my lip, scanning around me for hope that maybe, his inquisition was not directed at me.
You, in the white shirt! Do you love the Lord?!
After realizing that I had been passed the metaphorical crown of thorns like a hot potato, I nodded vigorously.

Then say it!
At a volume just a decibel louder than a dog whistle, I mouthed, I love Jesus!
Say it louder!
I smiled extra big, convinced that would make my whisper that much louder, I love Jesus!

He screamed back at me, in the volume that I probably should have vocally embraced Jesus, AMEN!!!

I determined that I had passed the test, but then... it happened. All of a sudden, I felt like I was the ringleader for the Circus of Christ. I was all torn up about Jesus, and I felt something that I had never felt in all of the youth groups and Baptist luncheons. Then, like magic, I felt something... something wet. I reached up and there they were: the tears. Why am I CRYING?
Somehow, in all of the mix and the quiet white judgement, followed soon after by white guilt, I had stumbled upon something I had never found in the walls of a church before: true inspiration from being in the company of Jesus. Even crazier, I had found people that seemed to be there for the reason of being close to God. I walked out of the church, still wiping tears from my eyes, and I noticed that their parking lot had not been redone in years. The mission trips they spoke of were in their community, speaking to the same people they passed on the street daily. No one was going to a Guatemalan beach to bring the Lord to local tourists--what little money placed in the Church of Zion's offering plate was money given to do something greater. It was to actually benefit the people that needed God.
I haven't been back to church since that day because I'm afraid of what might happen if I do. I don't want to jinx church because I went out on a good note, kind of like how Shania Twain ended her career. Instead, I just pray to God pretty regularly. I hold on to that feeling I had at that church, and I remember the people that so graciously welcomed me into their congregation. No one rededicated their lives to the Lord because they understood that everyday was a constant struggle to stay close to Him.
I don't think that religion exists within a church because if you're doing it right, all of your love for God shouldn't be able to fit into a church... that's why everyone was crying--not enough room. Instead, I think that the time you spend in church and the time you spend posting Facebook Bible verses could probably be better spent actually, you know, being nice to people. Even to the light skinned black girls.

Falling in Love Outside of Your Race (Or, Mother Do I Have a Milkshake?)

I think my parents always expected me to bring a nice white, Christian girl home one day and announce, This is the woman that I'm going to make my wife... or at least that's what they hoped for. In reality, I've brought home just about every variation of that equation except for that one. Casey and i never left a lot of room open for prejudice in our house because we were apparently really bad at following direction. And in started early for both of us. Casey's first major crush was on Amber Logan, a girl in our eighth grade class, and while Amber was extremely nice and extremely Christian, she wasn't by any stretch white, and once they had lost Casey, my parents began to reevaluate the characteristics they would hope for in our future mates. To come from the extended-Kirkland-clan (who made racist jokes into sport over Christmas dinner), my parents taught Casey and I how to love a little more freely than even they expected. We didn't see color or religion or any of that stuff, and there's no way that Kathy and Wendell could have prepared for that.
But being the trailblazer that I am, I opened up the door for Casey when I fell madly in love late into seventh grade. It was a process because you don't just jump from an incidentally all-white elementary school (with the exception of John Kearney and his biracial brother) into a melting pot such as South-Doyle Middle School. But once I had acclimated as a sixth grader and moved into seventh grade, I realized that the myths were untrue: black people are actually not only safe, but friendly. As a seventh grader, I was allowed to apply for and join Cherokee Television (CTV), which was the morning broadcast put on by middle schoolers to inform the school what was going on. If you were accepted into the small ranks, you were essentially a school-wide celebrity. Originally, I was placed in charge of the soundboard, but because of my inability to keep from pressing random buttons, I was quickly moved to an on-screen position. At the tender age of 12, I was placed as co-host of Homeroom Feud with Sydney Cross, my first black friend. We were quite a duo and groundbreaking in terms of CTV history. Never had South-Doyle had a multiracial duo hosting Homeroom Feud.

"And they're like, it's better than yours."

It took weeks to get over the fact that I wasn't selected as the primary host of CTV, or "the Katie Couric," as I would come to call it. But I made the best out of my position... that is until Sydney and I started having communication issues. I was always a precocious child, but in the purest ways possible. I could have a conversation with an adult like it was my job, but when it came to people my own age, sometimes I fell behind. Up until this point in my life, I had only listened to country music, so when Sydney walked in singing My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, I was a little taken aback. I asked Sydney who this song was by and what a milkshake was, but she denied me an answer. I was very obviously out of the loop, and it was upsetting to know that this milkshake double entendre was like a special club that I couldn't be apart of.
I went around asking people Will you tell me what a milkshake is? I asked my regular information sources: teachers, cafeteria workers, anyone with the slightest bit of authority. No one seemed to understand this "milkshake" either. I went home and asked my parents, but they didn't understand what was going on. So, in desperation, I turned to Google. I had prepared a list of preliminary questions, just in case I found out the answer:
--What is a milkshake?
--Do I have a milkshake?
--Is this the kind of milkshake you can drink?
--Why does this milkshake bring all the boys to the yard?
--How do you compare milkshakes?
Sadly, I don't think my query was specific enough, so for months, I was left stranded with the cliffhanger: what is a milkshake? I had decided that without Sydney's help, I was essentially out of luck. That was (and I didn't realize how mildly racist this was until now) until I met my second black friend, Kierra. She was everything that I had hoped my second black friend would be, and she was much less crass than Sydney. From the time that I started CTV to the end of eighth grade, I had been through three co-hosts, but no surefire fit. I was just a Kathy Lee looking for my Hoda, and there she was. Naturally, the first thing I did was ask Kierra what a milkshake was, and she quickly obliged and educated me on Kelis' ways. It wasn't long after that I started having the deep, raw emotional love that only seventh graders can feel, and then it happened: I had fallen in love with a black girl. I had no idea how I would ever tell my parents, but I knew that I had to. Kierra, for all intensive purposes, was supposed to be the love of my life. No matter the race, when you find a woman who willingly tells you what a milkshake is and compliments you perfectly as co-host of a low budget middle school television program, you love that woman with all of your heart.
I promised myself that I wouldn't kill my parents' dreams of snow white Aryan babies until I had to, but when I told Kierra that I liked her, she told me that she didn't "like me-like me." Little did she know, she set off a chain reaction in which I would spend the majority of middle and high school without any physical or emotional contact with anyone, followed by my college years when I would scandalously make out with just about anyone... regardless of race, religion, etc. The pain has died down since, but it just recently hit me: Kierra, my second black friend in the world, used her milkshake to bring 12 year old Justin to the yard, and then denied me. The personal alienation that followed, the scandalous/somewhat loose college years, my inability to commit to people: it all dials back to one thing... the milkshake.
But in time, all wounds eventually heal and time has a way of changing things. Kelis would go on to release much more provocative music before finally fading out into oblivion; I like to believe that her and Macy Gray share an apartment somewhere in inner-city New York. Kierra is off at college finishing up her undergrad; I like to think she's made friends that aren't nearly as ignorantly racist as I was as a twelve year old. Me on the other hand, I wander the streets of DC without any regard to any defining quality of a person. I just want someone to love--someone who will use their milkshake to bring me to the yard, teach me, but not have to charge.
And in the long run, I don't think my parents even care if I bring home a nice, white, Christian girl home anymore because I did that once, and that was the one girlfriend that I've had that both Kathy and Wendell didn't really like at all. In reality I think Wendell, who at one point could have arguably been classified as racist himself, dislikes white people more than he does any other race. Our Thanksgivings are void of color requirement (and religion and sexuality, for that matter) at this point. Raising Casey and me opened their eyes to a new world, and they've learned that there are much more important things in the world than a small defining quality.

Death and All His Friends

Last night, I was sitting with my roommates, talking about our lives in the context of a television show, which happens pretty regularly around our apartment. At first, I think they loved it, but I can tell from their lackluster reaction that it has become white noise like most of the things I do and say around the apartment. But last night, as we were commingling life goals and television talk, I said that you can't just settle for something in life because you don't know how long you're going to live. Eventually that led to me asking What if one of us died tomorrow? Wouldn't that be a huge plot twist in the show? What if it's me? to which Ben responded, You can't die. That would be like killing DJ off in the first season of Full House. It was reassuring because I always considered DJ the most integral of all of Danny Tanner's daughters.

It's not the first time by any means that I've contemplated my impending death. At six-years-old, I specifically remember going up to my mom and telling her that I was going to die when I was 29, which is super sketchy for a six-year-old to drop in casual conversation. That moment always stuck with me, and it stuck with my mom as well, so we don't talk about it. And the idea of 29 haunts me every birthday because I know it's getting closer and closer each year, and as silly as it sounds, I don't really feel like getting to 29 to find out if my child-in-a-horror-film-esque proclamation was right.

Death has always been a tricky thing in my life because I've seen so much of it, so in a way, I never really thought much of it... almost to the fact that I've been obsessed with it. Death and Justin are a bit of a roller coaster because when it comes to the topic, I've always been a bit up and down on the matter. One of my favorite anecdotes I've ever read (about my silverfox mancrush, Anderson Cooper) was that he became so obsessed with journalism and taking in sights that he would take pictures of all the things he had seen throughout his line of work. One day, whilst taking a picture of some dead bodies he had come across, a friend took a picture of him and gave it to him; it was to show him what he had turned into, and from that day on, he has supposedly drawn boundaries for himself. In a way, Anderson and I have that in common. I become infatuated with death and the emotional consequences it can have (i.e. One Tree Hill school shooting) that I sometimes forget how incredibly real death is, and then like clockwork it comes rushing back, and I witness something death-related--and all blog candor and humor aside, it's not a joke.

So when I woke up this morning, I was weary of even getting out of bed because I had this inclination myself that this is going to be the day that I die. I suppose it could be a lead-in from the conversation that I had last night or maybe that the bed was just really warm and that my subconscious went to a really dark place so that I would stay there, but I really did have a gut feeling that this was going to be my last day on Earth. So naturally, I reset my alarm for two more minutes... and for twenty minutes, I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, hoping that my intuition was wrong. In essence, it was very Meredith Grey in the bomb episode of me (2.13 "It's the End of the World," for those interested). And after resetting my alarm ten times over the course of twenty minutes, I admitted to myself that if this was really going to go down today, and this was my time, I couldn't really intervene fate when I don't actually know what the fate is. 

On the way to work, while very consciously watching out for other drivers, I thought about what I would want to do--how I would want to act--if this was the end of my road. So I called my mom, who started talking out of the blue about how she was happy that nothing had happened to me since I've moved because she has no idea how she'd get to me. Needless to say, when you have the pressing feeling in your gut that a catastrophe is bound to happen, and you're going to be its victim, the foreshadowing of your mother's praises don't help matters... so I told her I loved her, and I got off the phone. By the time I got to work, I had decided on my game plan... just be kind.

I didn't want to go to a special restaurant for lunch or take the day off (mostly because if I took the day off, then my chances of dying would have exponentially increased). I just wanted to be kind to people because I think that how's you should want to be remembered: kind. And it was probably the hardest thing that I did today because apparently no one else thought they were going to die today, or at least, they had a different approach to humanity if they did. I didn't want to tell anyone about my unconfirmed fate because I didn't want to taint the day, and I didn't want anyone to respond to it one way or the other, so the only person I told was my sweet, sweet coworker Liz who was mildly concerned and mildly frightened. As for everyone else, I just wanted them to act as is. I made an effort to call people on my breaks today to tell them hi or that I loved them, but it seemed as if everyone was busy or, honestly, just didn't want to talk. I made an effort to talk to an ex who would only respond in one word answers and quickly reminded me why we probably broke up. Others that I would hold the door for were downright hateful. I thought to myself Wow, you guys are really taking a giant shit on my last day on Earth. The climax built up to the walk to the metro when I nearly got hit by a car who sped through a red light. After I got to the metro, I accidentally backed into an Asian woman who flipped out on me in the middle of the car. 

That's when the take away kind of hit me: you don't live your last day on Earth (or at least act like it) for the praise of other people; you do it because that's how you're supposed to be every day. And for the logically-minded, I apologize for wasting your time with a whole bunch of nonsense revolving around potential death. If I had wanted to be logical, I probably could have spelled out all of the reasons that I wasn't going to die today (even though, today isn't really over. I still have to drive to class and back). However, and I may be stretching it, I don't think that feeling like I was going to die today was really the end-all-be-all lesson that came from my experience. People can be kind of cruel without even thinking about it, and it's even easier to notice when you honestly believe that it may be the last time that you'll ever see them again... even if it is just the door people at your office. But as crazy as it sounds, I really did believe when I opened up my eyes this morning that there was a good possibility it could be my last; it's a numb pain that's been with me all day. And as logic would have it, this will ultimately probably not be my last day, but it's a good reminder anyways because any day that you take out one minute, just sixty seconds, to remember how very fragile life can be... well... I would consider that a day well spent.

Heart Shaped Box

"Heart shaped box, she eyes me like a Pisces when I am weak."- Nirvana

As I emerged from the metro this evening, I made sure that I had my earphones in. I turned up Edith Piaf's "Milord" to a deafening level to drown out the flurry of Virginia voting enthusiasts that attack you as you emerge from underground. As I squirmed through the crowd finally getting to the crosswalk, I thought to myself, Oh, God. They won't be there tomorrow. I don't even know why I was sad... but I was. The Virginia voting hawks waiting outside the Clarendon metro screaming at me were going to disappear into dust, or maybe just back home with their abandoned families. Either way, we were about to break up, and in the worst break up way possible. I never gave them the time of day until it was too late, and now, these people that have become something normal, something comfortable, in my life are going to be gone. I'm breaking up with the Virginia voting hawks, and I'm not taking it well because as stupid and silly as it sounds, when you're in a new place with new people and nothing seems normal anymore, then yes... the Virginia voting hawks are important.
But it's not the worst break up I've ever been through by any means. In the grand scheme of things, I'll look back on my time with the Virginia voting hawks, and I'll smile. But in the moment, a break up can be one of the most devastating thing the human heart can go through, and yes, I'm talking about the literal human heart. Okay, actually, maybe I'm talking about the human body in general, but there is a pain that comes with heartbreak. And that's why it was so hard to deal with the two hardest heartbreaks I've had in life back to back. Like the voters, they both ended slowly--one with a letter, the second with nothing at all.
Even when things are complicated and messy, it's nice to know that there's someone around that is living in it with you, even if that person is partially responsible for it being that way. As humans, we love the conflict because it's a reminder that we're breathing and alive and capable of feeling. So after several tiresome months of an on-again, off-again relationship, everything that had gone wrong was outlined in a letter. She explained to me everything that had gone wrong, everything she didn't like about me anymore, and how in the process of getting to where we were, I had somehow become a different person. And with no consideration for everything that letter meant, I immediately threw it away. Just like that, all the good and bad and complicated and amazing that came with that relationship was gone. The only thing not listed in that letter was that I was clearly in love with someone else for the last half of our relationship. She never spoke to me about it, and under any other person's standards, I didn't cheat. But soon after the break up and the letter, I found myself grasping for the hand that I loved more than her. And as time went on, that hand got further and further away until it wasn't even visible anymore. Everything about my life had been turned upside down, and that's when the numbing pain really started. And that leads me to "the heart shaped box."
At the time, no matter how shallow or simple it may seem, my life consisted of those two people. I relied on their consistency: one to be around to always love me, and one to be around for me to always love. And in what seemed like an instant, it was all over. It doesn't particularly have to be romantically charged, though it oftentimes is, but it's at that point--the point when you have seemed to fall into absolute no man's land, so lost you can't stand it--that the heart shaped box is emptied of all its contents. What's even worse is that you have no idea where all the things inside it went. You're just left sitting there with this box and for a while, it seems so appealing because with nothing inside the box, you have nothing to lose. There's so much room to fill within it, but the issue is... filling the heart shaped box is kind of like the opposite of packing. There's a sense of urgency that comes with filling it, but ultimately, there's nothing to put inside.
To tone down the metaphor for a second, let's backtrack. After I lost those two incredibly important people, I realized that I never really made enough time (or room) for anyone else. My life had become a dedication to the relationships I had with them, which is where the problem set in. There was no one around to help me understand what had happened or how to put it back together, and in essence, there was nothing inside of me to help me remember the person I was. In all that free time I had with myself, there were a lot of tears. No one ever saw them because most of them were in private, which isn't so hard when you realize that most of your life is being led in private. I had to reteach myself what it was like to sit with my own thoughts. It took awhile, but to even begin to refill that box with anything of importance or meaning, I had to understand the person in charge of collecting those items.
For people like me, even when you kind of begin to grasp what's going on inside of your head and start to reestablish the person you are, you kind of get over the self-reflection. Unfortunately, you usually still have a chunk of time left over, and it's bittersweet and frustrating because with that extra time, you get to evaluate that box: how much room you have, how exactly you can make everything fit, but most importantly, what and whom goes into it. I don't think that the emptying of your box happens an absurdly high number amount of times in your life, but it definitely happens more than anyone would ever hope it could. Each time still sucks because... well... you got your shit thrown out and you weren't really planning on it. But in time, you teach yourself how to adjust because you know that's what you have to do. You memorize what was once inside like a Memory game, and the most important things and people will find their place within your heart shaped box again. It may sound cold, but the older you get, I think you learn more so what shouldn't be in that box... your life becomes exclusive and important, not because you're above those around you but because you finally realized that your life is too special to just share everything with everyone.
I'm three months into living in DC, and sometimes I'll still get impatient. I guess I thought that everything would be sorted out by now, and I have to begrudgingly remind myself that filling the box takes time. Something I've noticed is that I've become more particular about what and whom becomes apart of my life, and in a way, I worry about the people that I choose because I hold on to them more steadfastly than I ever have in my life. It's a steady balance that you have to hold because you don't want to scare the shit out of anybody... no one likes a "Stage 5 Clinger,"but I do think it's equally important to realize how quickly life moves and morphs. We never know when we are going to be pulled away from one another and the circumstance under which it might happen. And sadly, I'm pretty confident that the Virginia voter hawks will not make it into the heart shaped box; at this point, I think we're going to cut our losses. However, I would like to believe that the very few that I have met in this new city who have a place in there not only understand that their place is eternal, but also how very much it means.