The Opposite of Oprah's Favorite Things

Andrew informed me a couple of nights ago that I may have an issue with hiding my emotional reactions to things. As he was talking about something that I wasn't really paying attention to/didn't care about, I turned around once the sound of his voice had went away and responded, Neat. At first, when I started using the word, it was a very obvious way of showing distaste toward something that I obviously didn't care for, but now it has almost become a way to passively say I want you to be quiet now. It's not like I mean to be so blatantly obvious with my emotions; I suppose it's a blessing and a curse. No one in a relationship with me will ever feel like they're not loved, but it also means that they'll never not know when I'm super annoyed or pissed off. Needless to say, I never play poker, couldn't play any game that involved lying, and probably wouldn't fare too well in a game of Survivor. I'm just kind of an open book in that way.
And today on the way home from work, I may or may not have been wiping tears away as I'm ranting on the phone to my dad about how my life is eventually going to fall apart and I'm either A) going to be a vagrant or B) work in food service for the rest of my life, and he stopped me in the middle of my emotional tirade to say Justin, you talk a lot. I mean, more than anyone I've ever heard. You should try listening to me sometimes. I apologized and immediately tried to follow up with an explanation and he responded, You're still not listening. Touche, Wendell. Touche, indeed. And he's right. I'm self-admittedly not a good listener, and the ironic part of it is that I get personal gratification when people open up to me, but because I'm so horrible at listening, I rarely ever catch when people do. In my first week here, Andrew was trying to open up to me about his life back home, and I was casually texting one of my friends about something that was surely completely irrelevant at the time. Andrew, being kind of blunt when he wants to be, turns around and said, I'm trying to be open with you right now, and you're not paying attention. And what I should take from that is that I need to focus on other people in a more sincere way, but I think the major message that I usually leave with is that I have too many words for everyone's own good. When you pair less than discrete emotional reactions with not listening, it makes me wonder why I would ever choose to go into public relations.
But there are very few times that I'm left without words; speechless times for Justin are few and far between, but with Wednesday being the year anniversary of my own Senior Convocation, I was reminded of one of the most speechless times I've ever had in my entire life. Convocation is kind of a giant deal at Maryville College because you know that when you hear the bagpipes, the end is near. All of a sudden, you are attached with everyone else in your class, regardless of who had slept with whom, who had defecated under the stairwell and caused the entire building to get fined, or what kind of crazy roommate you had. Under the sound of Scottish music, everyone becomes officially one.
We filed into the Clayton Center, waiting on the speech that was surely going to have an impact that would shake us all. And of course, like Convocation usually works, you find your friends and you cling to them. It's one of the last times you can be together before the real world tears you apart from each other. My friends and I all sat together, waiting for the words of Dr. Bogart to inspire us throughout the rest of our senior year, and for the most part, it was inspiring. Like any other convocation, his words spoke of beginnings and endings, how everything at Maryville College was improving (despite the harsh faculty cuts and budget deficits), and how the future was ours for the taking. Convocation is a time to welcome the new freshman because they're tiny and frail and kind of silly, and for the seniors, it's a time of recognition and for saying goodbye. But then it happened: the moment.
While we were sitting there, appreciating all the kind words that were being said, everything was okay. And of course there was me, without my emotional filter, taking pride in all the kind things that were being said. Then there was a sudden shift in conversation; if it weren't already completely obvious from previous posts, there were those of us in fraternities/sororities/secret societies on campus, and then there were those of us who weren't. Most of the time, the issue was not spoken about... kind of like an inconvenient mole on someone's face or an affair in someone's marriage. So it was quite a surprise when Dr. Bogart abruptly shifted in the middle of Convocation to the topic of secret societies: I challenge today's students to do something different by choosing not to join the secret societies. First, they are illegal... second, they are divisive, creating artificial differences among students rather than looking to create community. He then went on to compare the choir to fraternities and sororities, which is largely true and maybe even a bit more exclusive, but by that time, he had lost the crowd. He tried to bring us back by name dropping the Gay Straight Alliance, followed by some Bible verses (an odd combination for a Southern college), but it was just too late. Dr. Bogart had broken the number one rule of Fight Club: don't talk about Fight Club.
There was an obvious divide in the crowd: some students couldn't bare but to reveal their devilish grins, feeling as if the words had somehow brought us all to justice. It was as if we were practicing witchcraft and had been called out in front of the school... but not Salem Witch Trial witches... more like The Craft. And then for the rest of us, we all just kind of sat there with our mouths gaped open, in a style that I believe mimics the exact opposite reaction that most middle aged women have during the "Oprah's Favorite Things" episode. And then, in the middle of all that is me with a slightly debilitated expression, glancing from side to side to see if there was some mechanism in our seats that would explode if we attempted to escape, you know, Hunger Games style. I'm surprised my tongue didn't fall out of my mouth, and if Dr. Bogart had caught a glimpse of my face during his speech, he probably would have burst out laughing. Ellison, who for all intensive purposes was on the side of the administration (from here forth referred to as "The Capitol"), leaned over and said Sorry, brah. But no words at that point could shake my expression, which is best equated to a hybrid of Meryl Streep from The Devil Wears Prada and Sean Penn from I Am Sam.
I honestly can't remember much of what was said at Convocation other than that. There was something about the Bible and a neat (damn it, there went the sincerity) story from it, but I can't seem to recall what it was. I hear Bible and my mind shifts to Christian, which goes to Baptist, which goes to New Hopewell Baptist church, which goes to how the youth group used to raise their hands in the air when we'd sing Lord, I Lift Your Name on High, and then I start humming the song in a really enthusiastic tone. But unless there was something about how to get a PR firm to call you back after you've submitted three resumes to them or how to pay rent without actually giving anyone money, I don't think I missed out on too much. I try to listen when it's most important, and when I am listening, you'll know exactly how I'm feeling about what is being said.

Things You Can Be Doing in Florida Other Than Going to The Republican National Convention

Sadly, I am sitting in my mid-Atlantic apartment watching the Republican National Convention instead of actually being in Florida for the Republican National Convention. It's disappointing for a number of reasons, namely my avid dedication for Mitt Romney, the advocation for life in situations of rape, and consideration that pregnancy can begin before sperm even gets involved (like on Baby Mama)... jay kay, I just think it's funny when a whole bunch of closeted gay men get together and wear appropriately colored ties (fun fact: back in the day, gay men would wear red ties and pinky rings to signify they were gay in a subtle way... watch Mad Men, Salvador says it all). Anyway, I suppose that choosing Florida for the national convention was an obvious choice, but I'll let you assume why. However, if you are so lucky to be in Florida right now, I want to remind you that you have options. Instead of sitting in a sparsely populated arena listening to a black person who was brainwashed by Mitt Romney to add a little ethnic flair to an otherwise white man's campaign, I'm here to offer you some travel suggestions.
I once went to Florida, and it's a pretty neat place. Mind you, that was during Spring Break 2011, so my perspective may be a little blurred, but it's whatevs. I'm pretty sure that I remember enough that I can tell you some hot spots in and around Florida that may pique your interest and sway you away from this Republican business going on.
First and foremost, before we start, I would just like to remind you of all the reasons that going to the national convention just isn't as fun as it was four years ago. I think the number one reason is that Sarah Palin isn't there. Let's be honest: you either loved her (like me, seriously) or you loved to hate her. Either way, it was really exciting to have her around because she was always good for a laugh. She made the convention fun, sexy, and a little bit naughty... and we liked that. Second of all, there was that tiny little John McCain who we appreciated because he had the face of a teddy bear and the valor of a legend. Even if he ended up in office doing crazy business for four years, at least he was lovable. I'm sure that after a while, we could have maybe gotten used to it. Kind of. But now we have two white men... again... and isn't that just kind of boring? It all feels kind of dangerous now; it's hard to laugh at the issues they stand behind because there's nothing that makes them kind of laughable. Maybe it's not too late to get Christine O'Donnell back with some of that witchcraft. Hermoine for President!
But I digress, let's get back to Florida. Tampa is kind of a funny place because it's in such an inconvenient location, but if you happen to stumble up toward the border of Florida and Georgia, there's this really cool place that sells oranges and puka shell necklaces. I also found a coffee cup with the name Carol on it, but if none of that appeals to you, they also have a thirteen foot gator! You read that correctly the first time: thirteen. foot. gator. And yeah, you'll probably have to pay to see it, but instead of listening to Republicans talk about small business development that they may or may not have anything to do with (ahem, tax cuts for the wealthy and corporations, sniff cough), you can give your money to actual small businesses that aren't being represented by some woman from Delaware talking about her autistic son's personal growth because of her self-made business. I mean, snaps to you emotionally trained Republican woman with Sarah Palin glasses, but seriously... I don't think you have a thirteen foot gator.
Also, if discussing the underlying characteristics of birth control that are tearing the sanctity of our country apart isn't intoxicating enough, Florida is one of the last states in the country to sell 4Loko's with 12% alcohol. Yes, they have been linked with heart attacks and some of the most devastating physical ramifications that 24 ounces can offer a person, but you only live once or YOLO as the kids say these days. And for those of you who turn into that girl when you drink your trashy, malt beverages from the gas station, then what better way to celebrate what could be the final days of availability to birth control by starting your night off with a 4Loko... that is, unless you're gay, in which case, there is obviously no need for birth control since you're going to split Hell wide open anyways. Sigh.

Though this is probably one of the most important topics at this year's convention, along with one of the most depressing, we need to briefly discuss the economy. In short, it kind of sucks, and if you go to the convention and you are in that middle to lower class bracket, you're going to hear something along the lines of "sucks to suck." So, instead, you can visit one of Florida's many Burger Kings. I know that on Spring Break, Burger King was kind of like my safe haven, and if you want the skinny, the best deal that you can get is that BK Stacker. So cheap, but quaintly delicious.
And lastly, since you're in Florida and because things aren't looking too fantastic for America either way, there really could be a chance that Mitt Romney will get elected, and in that case, this could be the last time you're ever in Florida... not so much because you won't have the money to get there but more because the increase in drilling oil will cause global warming to escalate at a rate that would cause Florida to be underwater as early as 2016. I'm not joshing you guys, go to the beach. Skip the convention and just hang out on the sand while it's still available in an oxygenated environment. Oh yeah, go to Disney World, too. That'll be gone as well. And when I assume that Florida will be gone, I'm going to go ahead and say that it will definitely be gone. Trust me, I took an environmental studies class a couple years ago; we talked about stuff like this.
I'm going to be honest, maybe I'm a little biased in this debate. Yep, I'm going to admit it... I'm probably sounding a little left-winged for your taste, and I apologize for that. This has always been a safe place for all of us; a place where we could leave our political woes at the door and laugh about things that weren't so intensely topical. But I'm sorry, I have to stand up and say something when our next first lady bears a striking resemblance to Ann Coulter. You remember what that woman said about 9/11... I don't think any of us liked it that much. I'm not saying that Ann Romney is Ann Coulter (whoa... they have the same name), but I am saying that I like Michelle Obama more. She's fierce, she knows how to rock a pencil skirt, and she takes her kids to popular concerts.
And if I haven't won you over yet, they played God Bless the USA by Lee Greenwood and Kid Rock was scheduled to perform at the RNC. Scene.

Mommies Get Tired, Too

When I was younger, there was always something that I wanted my mom to do for/with me. There was a television show or some kind of homework or a shirt that absolutely had to be washed before the next day or even worse, I wanted her to do something physical. I'm not exactly sure why I wanted her to jump on the trampoline or walk down the road or practice soccer with me, but it seemed logical at the time. My mom's energy was limitless, and as far as I was concerned, it all belonged to me. It wasn't as if she worked or cooked dinner or did all of our laundry... the rest of her time was supposed to belong to me, or that's what I thought until I had my first weekend as a Mommy myself.
I guess my entry to mommyhood started on Friday. I knew as soon as I woke up, I felt different and not because of some excruciating labor or anything like that... I decided to skip that step of mommyhood. I walked into the kitchen of our apartment and looked at the leftover pasta with homemade creamy feta sauce that I had made the night before. I like trying new recipes; it's my time to remember who I was when I was younger: creative, hopeful. But of course, when Andrew came home from work, he rudely overlooked the dinner I made, the dinner that he was two hours late for. Didn't it matter that I had cooked that evening? Wasn't it good enough? No. He opted for a sandwich instead, and as I looked at the pasta, I realized just how unappreciated I was. But because of my unrelenting spirit, I decided to sweep the apartment, but no one cared. Eleanor and Marsha would have been so proud of me because the entire floor was spotless, but alas, no one noted it. And then when we went out for "happy hour" that night, I drank more drinks than anyone else. I could feel their judgment. I could visibly see the terrible vibes heading my way, but when a mommy works as hard as I do cooking and sweeping and watching half of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows 2 and the last fifteen minutes of No Strings Attached, I feel like I deserved all three of those margaritas.
And then on Saturday, I did the most mommy thing I could think of: I spent the day going off to antique stores and thrift stores by myself. Sure, I left Ben at the apartment sleeping, but he's stayed by himself before; he could find something to eat for lunch. It was "me time;" a moment for me to go and enjoy the things that old people had once owned, then left to someone in their will, only to be market at a completely unaffordable price. I enjoyed looking through old newspapers and furniture, measuring cups marked for 45 dollars and the occasional affordable, but completely impractical, cigar tin. And then after that, I made friends with an old woman and met her and her life partner at their house to pick up a free record player. I then swung by the Goodwill to pick up a Carole King album to test on my record player-- my favorite one, Tapestry. And as I carried it to the register, I had realized that maybe this mommy metaphor had gotten out of control. I was standing in a secondhand store, running my finger along a Carole King album and reflecting on how I had fallen in love with the distressed wood armoire that was completely out of my price range. The whole day had been consumed with mingling with old people and befriending old lesbians. I was just excited that after two weeks of a new city and new people and a new apartment, I was finally getting some time to myself. I had suddenly become the hybrid of a gay man and a 45 year old divorcee, and I had no idea how I had gotten there.
So today I decided to go back to being a twenty-two year old man; I had every intention of doing so, but as soon as I got up, that all changed. Andrew and I took off at a completely unreasonable hour on a Sunday to go pick up an old plastic Christmas tree; once we got there, we found a blue wing backed chair, a piece of wall art, and a KitchenAid blender. We spent a bit loading it all into the car, but then I felt accomplished all over again, in the way that I imagine only mommies feel accomplished. Then, we returned and they asked me to go play basketball, but all I wanted to do was pour myself a morning drink and read yesterday's Washington Post that someone conveniently throws away everyday without reading. Apparently, we played a game called "21," which I thought involved a deck of cards, a fold out table, and a visor, but then I found myself out on a basketball court running around (which is honestly the furthest thing from the truth). After meandering around the court for a while, I made a legitimate attempt to score, made 2 points, and then sat down. I had accomplished what I set out to do: be involved long enough to feel like I had done something, then quit... kind of like what I do with every sport I've been involved in. Then I spent the rest of our time watching Ben argue with the Mexican children at the court, as Andrew was being called "big boy," by the other child. I wanted to run out on to the court and explain to Andrew that he is perfect the way God made him, and he probably just looks "big boned" to the other kids, but sometimes, you have to let them grow up on their own. Instead, I sat on the bench and talked to a friend from home.
We decided to go to the mall, which concluded with Ben yelling in the car and pressing on my knee to make the car go faster. I almost threatened to pull over and let him walk home, but seriously, what kind of parent does that? If I'm stuck in mommy-mode indefinitely, I will not be the kind of parent that ends up getting visited from DHS. Not at my home; not on my time. Eventually, we came back, and Andrew wanted me to teach him how to iron. After the first shirt, he offered a trade: if I would iron all his shirts for him each week, he would give me a preset amount of cuddle time in return. Yes, cuddling. Even though I'm a pretty huge fan of some recreational cuddling, I barely have the ambition to iron my own shirts during the week, let alone Andrew's. Plus, I don't know what I'll be doing when Andrew needs his shirts ironed. It might be TV time, and it's just a sin to cross housework with syndicated television.
I honestly don't know how my mom did it. I can't cut being a mom, and I hate feeling like I've somehow let myself fall into mommy mentality. I miss being a 22 year old, and I can only hope that maybe this is some weird phase that I'm going through, kind of like how I treated the majority of last week like I was on a reality television show. Andrew and Ben are not children by any means... correction: Andrew and Ben are not children any more than I am. We're all still kind of children, I guess. But if randomly going through a mommy phase is any kind of reflection on how being an actual parent is, I don't know if I want a part in that for a while. Buying things for myself is expensive, let alone things for people that don't have the ability to buy things themselves. Sometimes, like this morning, I don't want to even get out of bed to do things that I've chosen to do myself, so the prospect of waking up to take care of someone else just isn't something that appeals to me right now. All I can hope is that this weird mommy feeling will be over before I know it because there's only so much red wine I can drink out of a Redskins cup; that's the problem you have when two cultures collide.

Will You Still Love Me Today?

A couple nights ago, I was talking to Nam about some boy she was talking to... Nam and I had a conversation about finding that special person and about how fate and circumstance has to work in your favor: the right time along with the right place along with the right person. It's a lot of alongs, and it doesn't really seem fair to anybody in the world who would ever want to leave one place and go to the other. The whole thing is so chancy, and it always seems so... pointless. I guess if you talked to a cynic, it probably is because how often can we ever expect to find someone at all the right "things." Nam and I have been taking turns battling back and forth with her theory; less about the logistics and more about the struggle of dealing with such intimidating circumstances.
After a three year hiatus, I dated someone my senior year--a freshman, the cardinal sin of a college senior. Multiple times, I was told that the relationship was pointless and in the aftermath, I probably would have agreed. At times, I still find myself holding that sentiment. However, I did it. I dated a freshman, and when it was great, it was great, and when I got into grad school... well... it wasn't. Now, with me being in DC and her heading ever so quickly into the Peace Corps, she's met this boy and it could be something, but with Nam being Nam, she makes it a logical puzzle. There's obviously no reason why she would ever go through with anymore than a brief make out before calling it quits. And as I texted her, nearly falling asleep because it was so late, I sent her this message,

We never really know what our futures look like, or if we have one, so I say enjoy it while you can. end it when you absolutely have to, and never regret that you took a moment out to care for someone. there may never be a good time for potential love or even companionship... so you have to take it when it arrives.

And, like most things that I internally contemplate, I asked myself as I was falling asleep that night A) Who the hell is the person that just said that to her? and B) Did you give someone a complete sense of false hope only to be let down? It's human nature I guess to err on the side of cynicism, but it really was too late to correct any possible mistake I made. Soon after our conversation I fell asleep and had one of the most startling dreams I've ever had in my life.
Patrice was the first person I saw in my dream; she ran up to a police officer standing at the edge of a taped off intersection. Smoke could be seen rising from the ground, and she asked him What's going on? He turned around and said There was a bomb in the metro; we're trying to get down there. Patrice pulled out her phone and began to text someone while saying to the officer My friends are on the metro. I'm guessing that the timeline went backwards from there, only on the basis that you just kind of understand what's going on in your dreams without any kind of explanation.
I could see everything that was going on--the day was as average as any other day in DC has been so far, and I remember looking up at the sky, blue and bright, the kind of sky that almost hurts to look at it because nothing is standing between you and the rest of the universe. Andrew, my roommate, had just called me to tell me that he had some issues going on at home with his girlfriend and that he was going down into the metro. I, however, was walking with someone I had never met before... hand in hand, as if I had done it for months and months leading up to the dream. Sure, I had never met the person walking with me in my dreams, but at one point, I turned around and leaned forward for a kiss. The kiss was nothing extraordinary, just a moment in the middle of a city that I barely know anything about. I said that we would meet up later to tell everyone about our news, and then I let the other hand go, leaned in for one more kiss and got on the escalator leading down to my own metro.
The last thing I remember before I woke up was watching the doors of the metro close behind me as I boarded at the last second, and then I woke up. Waking up from dreams like that usually send me into a panic, as if I have some ability to channel premonitions. But, the whole scenario didn't actually imply anything for certain, at least in the premonition world. I don't know if it was my train that had the bomb in it, nor did I know if it was Andrew's. But in the back of my mind, I had this gut feeling that it was mine. It was as if I knew that those doors were closing behind me for a reason, and that I didn't need to finish the dream to know what had happened. In dream world, as far as I was concerned, I had died that day on the metro... and in an odd way, I was okay with it.
The only reason that I wasn't in some kind of dream-induced panic attack is because, whether it was a dream or a premonition... or if I died or lived... that version of me that lived in that dream was happy. I could feel that happiness as I boarded the dream metro. I could feel that happiness as I leaned it for a kiss from the stranger that I obviously was about to bring further into my world. Somehow, in a world full of people that shoot up public places and a world full of war and disease, I had found some semblance of happiness lurking on the outside of a metro, and even if my world were to end directly after such a simple kiss, it would have been okay because for that moment I was happy.
And not by any means am I saying that I'm not happy now, but I think it's so easy at this point in our twenty-something lives to forget that there might be things to be happy about right now. And we spend all this time trying to fool proof our lives: we try our best to make relationships work that just aren't working anymore and in doing so, we ruin any chance of being able to look back upon it with a favorable perspective. We are hoping that by doing this or that we will solidify our futures to a point that we can ensure comfortability without knowing if we even have a future to be comfortable in. We hope for money and possessions, and we sometimes attempt to turn intangible things into something that we can see or feel because it's a better way to gauge our futures. If life were done on paper, it would be so much easier, but it's not.
After days of not posting and feeling completely blocked as to what I should write about, it came to me. I spent the day touring thrift stores and antique shops looking at furniture that I couldn't come close to buying. In my pursuits, I met an old woman who was giving away a record player. She gave me her address, and when I got there, she invited me into her house introducing me to her partner and her dog. She gave me the record player and told me that if someone didn't come pick up her records, I was free to come back by and get them. I thought about all the antiques and the record player and the life that woman and her partner had developed in their beautiful home. And though some of those things came from homes that were wealthy, surely, there were at least a couple things that came from someone who didn't have much. They live on through these people who purposefully go and buy their possessions in an attempt to own a part of someone's life that has already been lived out. The idea seems so comforting to me, that even after death, our lives could continue on through the things that we've left behind.
And I'm sure that all that I've been thinking about is a lot to process for one twenty-two year old boy in just a couple days, but while in search for the preliminary album to test out my new record player, I came across Carol King's Tapestry, which could be one of my favorite albums of all time. Going over the songs on the back to refresh myself, I came across "Will You Love Me Tomorrow?" I found the whole concept to be a little farfetched... why ask someone to love you tomorrow when you have the opportunity to love them wholeheartedly today?

Six Miles Up, Six Miles Down

I think it's human nature for people to say things about themselves that make them sound more refined or perfect than we really are. It's the reason that we stand in line at Starbucks, muttering venti bold Columbian espresso no whip over and over, so when we actually get to the counter, we're able to say it as if we actually order something so complicated every day. Then we turn around and tell the person behind us who is whispering their own semi-Italian phrases in practice, that we opted out of the whipped cream because you read in some magazine that it is bad for you. No we didn't. We heard that from the last person standing in front of us at Starbucks. We're a crazy population of people that love to come across as something that we really want to be, and dare I say, sometimes think we are. But there's always an issue--a pothole that stops us dead in our tracks. Some people turn to money or status, but for me, I would say that my weakness is trying to come off as healthier or more active than I really am.

Wine: A hobby worth having.

And it's so funny because when I tell people the things that I'm interested in, there's a part of me that actually believes that I'm into "cross country running," but the only time that I've ever been anything close to cross country running was on the way out of the woods from a hunting trip with my dad because I knew we were going to stop at Subway on the way back. My real hobbies include: writing, drinking wine, quoting obscure moments from popular culture, talking to people, doing stuff related to public relations or writing, reading, drinking wine, driving places, canoeing, and drinking wine.
My most recent error was telling my roommate that I really "wanted to start running again." The most successful venture I ever had with running is when I was borderline obese and kind of accidentally started working out. I somehow block out the times when my vision would start to waver and I would use three paper towels to get rid of all the sweat on my head alone... I just remember that, for a time, I think I might have enjoyed running. So, it's always a giant surprise to me when I try to run recreationally how much I actually hate it, and what I hate even more than running is when people stop and wait for me to catch up. I want them to leave me so that I can wallow in my own misery. I want to power walk without the athletic pressure of those around me, and if I get lucky enough, I'll drown in my own body fluid and never have to run again. To prove to myself that I wasn't ever going to make the mistake of recommending a run again, I had us walk down the big hill next to my house so that I would have to run up it. I listened to a song that reminds me of someone I loathe from my senior year of college just so that I could muster enough energy to haul ass up the hill. I wanted to associate as many bad things with running as possible so that I'll never forget that the ramifications of acting active will always outweigh the image boost that comes with it.
But there's never been a more devastating error that I've made than the dangerous, dangerous phrase: Oh you like hiking? I LOVE hiking. No you don't, Justin. You like that you got Chacos on sale, and you love snacks. You like the things that come with hiking. You do not like hiking. And the reason that I don't like hiking always becomes apparent pretty early into the hike. You have to climb up things, and not only that, there are all these things in your way... like rocks or roots or children. The whole thing is such a burden, and you're never prepared for it.
But when Dixie asked me to go hike Mt. LeConte (as if that's just a normal thing to do), it must have been a couple years since I had hiked. But I loved Dixie and I thought I loved hiking, so I agreed. We woke up at a totally unreasonable hour and met to adventure up this mountainside. And as always, when I go packing, I pack the most ridiculous assortment of things: a camera, a complete inadequately sized water bottle, nothing to eat at all, and a jacket that I am sure that I will never use. I'm terrible at hiking, but I'm even worse at preparing for it.

This is obviously very early into the trip, as
I am still smiling and am not totally drenched
in sweat.

Another common factor is the mood that comes with hiking Justin. I always start out feeling fantastic, usually setting an unrealistic pace and then I talk about how I always go that fast; I guess it's just my thing. Then, much like my running style, about a mile in I slow to the pace of an elephant taking sips of my water every seven feet. And by the time that we get about a third of the way into the hike, I begin asking how close we are... would it be okay if I stopped to tie my shoe... let's just sit for a minute and take in the scenery... pretty much anything that would keep us from having to go any farther. Dixie told me the night before we were to hike Mt. LeConte that the hike was "six miles," and as great of a person as I think Dixie is, if we were to have a conversation about it right now, I would call her a liar to her face. I know exactly what she did: she very inquisitively asked me things on the way up the mountain, like: wow, don't you think we should be near the top? haven't you seen this before?... but I know what she was doing... she was making some wiggle room for herself when I realized at about mile four up the mountain that it was six miles up, six miles down. I looked up toward the top of the mountain and turned around to Dixie, one of the nicest and most moral people I've ever met and pointed to the top of the mountain, announcing Dixie, what the hell is that? Why the hell is the mountain up there? She looked at me with a worried face, as if I might actually throw her off the ledge we were on. The truth was out there now: Justin is obviously not a hiker. She turned her map upside down, then right side up, look inquisitively as if there might be some kind of error, but Dixie knows how to read a map. Dixie knew exactly what she had done... she had me trapped in God's country, and as much as I love me some Jesus, I think God and I both know that's not where I belong.
I eventually convinced Dixie that a mile from the top of the mountain was a pretty stellar personal best for me, as long as I would eventually go back to hike Mt. LeConte one day. And one day, I would love nothing more than to stand at the top of Mt. LeConte with her, providing there's a trolley service to the top, or that winking business from I Dream of Jeanie becomes an actual human function. When we finally reached the car, I had developed two giant blisters on each foot and had somehow burst them in the process of getting down. I was frazzled and nasty and tired and even so disoriented that I offered a hitch hiker named "Leaf" a ride down the road, but I believe that's probably a different story for a different day.
But it's these stories that remind me to stick with what I'm good at and just try to capitalize on those experiences the most. Canoeing is like water hiking, and arguably even better because you get to sit down the whole time. Actually, all of my favorite hobbies involve sitting down, which might be an indicator of a common goal I try to aim for... do as much as possible without getting up. And you know what, if you can't dig what I'm doing when I'm sitting down, then I'll just have to see you when you get off the mountain.

Appa Bahp

If I've ever been good at anything, it's talking. All my elementary school teachers told me so. I guess I was also good at taking a compliment because when Mrs. Henderson would shoot me eyes across the classroom and say, "You're getting a little too good at talking," I would immediately become filled with pride and consider my communication skills superior to the other second graders around me. It wasn't until I set an unprecedented record for yellow lights (an even split between talking excessively and my inability to stop crying) that I determined that my gift for gab may not be the best thing in the entire world.
However, coming from Tennessee, I never considered that my voice was any different from anyone else's. Sure, I talk a little louder than other people, but that's because so many people ignored my very important things I wanted to contribute to conversation as a child. Naturally, I spoke louder so that they could hear me. It wasn't until I was older that I realized that the way I say things may not be the way that other people say them. What I have never understood is the reaction that people have when there is a communication barrier. It's the same kind of lapse in judgment that people have when there's a bad connection on a cell phone; walking around a circle with a three feet radius repeating Can you hear me? is not going to give your phone any more bars than it had before. Holding it up fourteen inches above your ear won't do anything either.
When I visited a high school teacher after graduation, we sat down for dinner and began to talk about how life was in college. I told her and her husband about joining a fraternity, making Dean's List... all the basic things that people recap when you talk about your college life. She told me about things that were happening at school and all the things privvy to everyone except the students that actually go there. As we approached the end of the night, I collected my pea coat from the closet, fixed my scarf around my neck and said the fatal word: Goodnight.
In unison, they responded: Good knot?
I retorted: Goodnight.
Again: Good knot?
This literally went on for at least forty-five seconds. I explained how, for some reason, my teachers had not beaten the Southern accent out of me as a child, and when I use certain vowels, the drawl comes out a little more than it would regularly. As if I hadn't picked up on the hint, they went on to explain to me how odd my accent was. It sounded so... rustic, which is a politically correct way of saying podunk. Then it usually follows with someone saying how endearing my voice is, which is a politically correct way of saying, Hey, I'm really entertained by your voice. Let's draw some attention to it. It's a burden and a curse I suppose, but I've never really been bothered by it. That is... until appa bahp.
Last summer, a couple of friends and I decided to escape campus for a while and go grab a bite to eat. Smokey Mountain Brewery was a new restaurant in the area, so naturally, it seemed like a good option. We had decided that with it being a brewery and restaurant that focused specifically on Southern favorites, it only made sense to order something that would be specifically Southern. When our waitress approached the table she seemed nice enough: young, pregnant, and without a wedding ring... something not too uncommon for a waitress in the greater East Tennessee area. I find myself immediately attracted to people like this. She said she would have married her boyfriend, but she hadn't seen him since she told him that she was pregnant. She asked us for our drink orders, and I thought we had a connection. I thought she cared. I thought she wasn't obnoxious, but when I said that I wanted the "Apple Pie Moonshine," she put her hands on her hips and announced "APPA BAHP?!" Like I usually do, I repeated myself Um, the apple pie moonshine. And like clockwork, she responded APPA BAHP?! My friends couldn't get enough; what a funny joke it must have been. Completely unamused, I responded I don't understand. Like someone who can't quite find appropriate things humorous or who just has to tell everyone the last black joke they heard, she responded yet again APPA BAHP?! It literally went on and on for three minutes, the longest that I've ever seen anyone choose to be so blissfully obnoxious. I wasn't sure what to do because it seemed as if I was at that point in Mario where you don't really care enough to actually go into the green PVC pipe that takes you to the next level... you'd rather just throw your controller out the window. I didn't even want to get a drink anymore; I just wanted her to deliver the baby inside of her so I could shamelessly toss her through the window, then steal the baby and raise it as my own so that it would have a chance for an okay life.

Oh Meredith, what have you
done with your hair?

And I guess that my voice is no Dan Rather, but calling upon the distinctness of someone's voice, particularly someone from the South that could be deemed as "stupid," is kind of unfruitful if you make yourself sound like an idiot in the process. Unless you're in a debate with strategic facts and figures in between your statements, repeating yourself is something that kind of makes you look like a, well... a dumbass. To this day my vowels haunt me; some would say that it's my Achilles Heel--my weakness and my strength. My hope was to come to DC and use my accent as a distraction, making any "competitors" think that I am some dumb hillbilly and then skating past them when they're not looking. I think the plan has worked halfway so far, but without any opportunities to skate yet, it's more just people thinking I'm kind of dumb.
But at the end of the day, you should be proud of who you are and where you come from. Everyone in the world is so plain, so ordinary, so uninspiring. That's why Meredith's mom on Grey's Anatomy never loved her enough. She doesn't have an accent, her scrubs are never ironed, and she has a frumpy haircut. And that's a frustrating thing to see in your child, let alone another person. You honestly need something to make you distinctive from everyone else in the world because who wants to go through the world being just another person with a non-distinct personality/accent/face/haircut? Look at Matthew McConaughey; he can't act or do anything helpful for the human race, but he still gets hired for movies because of his voice... or his body. Whatevs. Surely you can't be that worthless; imagine the possibilities.

Rich Girls Go To Party City

Tonight, I'm sitting in my apartment as the people I've met in DC (not so much the woman who asked me to put money in her shoe) go out for something called "Restaurant Week." For those of you unfamiliar to what "Restaurant Week" is (because I was), it's this thing when overly priced food is sold for a cheaper, but still overly priced, rate. So if you are one to drop ninety dollars on a meal (which is approximately seventeen five dollar footlongs from Subway), you can have that same meal for a discounted forty. Sadly, I've never been one to drop more than twenty-five dollars for a single dinner outing, and that meal better sing the praises of Jesus Christ and be dusted with tiny gold flakes. Instead, I've opted for what is sure to be a delivery from Dominos and whatever is coming on television tonight. Sigh.
And to be honest, I would love to say that I'm just some middle class kid that's griping about not being able to spring for goat cheese salad with Serena and all the other Gossip Girls, but this could possibly be the most destitute point in my life. I've spent the last week refreshing the "Free Stuff" on DC's Craig's List page hoping to happen upon a bed frame or something else of use for my apartment. It's the first time in my life that I've ever sincerely asked myself the question Are you just a trashy bitch? It's a difficult time because you don't ever want to be perceived as the guy who would rather spend more money of Natty Light than you would on furniture, and I never would have thought that had I not been mocked for my motley collection of furniture. It's hard feeling like you're a bum, and it's hard feeling like you can prove yourself otherwise.

"After all that we've been through, I know we're cool."

But the whole situation helps me reflect on my life; the many times that I've been the poor girl in a rich girl's world. Gwen Stefani said it best, If I were rich girl... na na na na na na na na na na na na na... Okay, so maybe Gwen didn't say it best, but I'm sure you get the point. My life has been plagued by rich girl moments; times when people were going to places or doing things that were simply out of my price range. It's unfair, but that's life (or the Republican party) for you. But of all the rich girl moments that I've ever experienced (including, but not limited to, anything that involved the planning of one Brad Finney), none have been as deviant or complex as the seventh grade love triangle that love and money thrust me into.
Middle school is scandalous. If you were caught making out with someone in any location on the face of the planet, you could be deemed hero or whore in a matter of three text messages. There was a hierarchy, and that pyramid was not one to be tampered with. I've never personally believed in a glass ceiling, but I also knew what my place was in the grand scheme of middle school politics. I would go to class and do my business, make as many A's as possible, and go home. Never did I believe that it would be so easy to find myself wrapped up in the middle of the drama of South-Doyle's [arguably] richest student.
Mr. Ambrose invited any member of the seventh grade chorus to audition for the winter concert solo for "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." Considering that such an invaluable Judy Garland classic was up for grabs, there was no question; I was going for it. Sure, I understood that kids like me who were chided by his classmates for his tie that "looked like a sock" were not supposed to attain such prestigious honors, but I mean... seriously--nothing could stand between Judy and me. After a preliminary audition in front of the audience, most of the auditions were met with obligatory claps and an occasional yay! or way to go!, but as I lit into what was later compared to "just like Justin Timberlake from N'Sync" (which in case you didn't know, is the equivalent to being knighted by the Queen as a thirteen year old), the chorus erupted in a thunderous roar. I. Had. Arrived. The only true competition I had was Sarah Campbell, a seventh grade songbird in her own right. I knew that to beat Justin Guarini... I mean, Sarah Campbell... I would have to really bust out something spectacular on our second audition. There was no room for pitch issues; there was no place for error. I had to really make these people believe that I wanted them to have a merry little Christmas.

This is a picture of me getting the solo. To quote Kelly,
I can't believe it's happening to me.

As we approached the front of the room, Mr. Ambrose's wife Linda (who never admitted it, but was totally rooting for me the entire time) accompanied me. Crescendo after decrescendo, countless trills and vibratos... I had done it again. It was my "A Moment Like This." And with all her might, there was nothing that Sarah could do to change the outcome. I had won. When Mr. Ambrose made the official announcement, I made my fatal error. Like all the seasons of American Idol I had watched, none of the winners turned around and said Suck on that! They made their way over to the runner up and gave a meaningful, heartfelt hug. I was only following protocol, so as I made my way over to the front row to give my condolences and respect, I broke one of the biggest rules of middle school: You never hug another man's girlfriend.
Sarah, at the time, was dating Brian Daley. Earlier that month, Brian had been dating Sarah's friend, Emily, and without being able to remember the specifics, let's just go ahead and say that Brian dated a lot of people in middle school. The engagements never lasted too long, but it was something to be revered if you had a little bit of time dating Brian. And I don't want this to seem like I was the complete victim of this story; if I'm being honest, I had had a crush on Sarah on and off for years. She, at one point, was my dream girl. My Kelly Kapowski. But in the world of middle school dating, the odds were not in my favor. His dad owned a Party City; my dad owned two deer heads and the VHS boxset of Lonesome Dove. I mean, there's really no comparison. But in essence, I really didn't think there was anything too heinous to my actions. All I wanted to do was offer some competitor love, even if there was some hormonal drive in doing so.
I wasn't prepared for how quickly the news would spread. The next day, I was greeted in homerooms with ambiguous threats from people about how Brian Daley was going to kick my ass. I wasn't sure how to respond because I sure wasn't going to say ass. I mean, I had only been saying "stupid" for two years... I wasn't prepared for this kind of coarse language, let alone the actions that these statements yielded. All I wanted was to make Judy Garland proud, and look where that had gotten me: on the chopping block of the heir of two Party Citys, and let me tell you, that's not the place where you want to be. In essence, we had a West Side Story situation on our hands; I was just a lonely Jet meandering through the hallways waiting for a Shark to come behind and stab me when I wasn't looking. What I remember most from the whole situation was the fear, less about the outcome... even though, if memory serves me correctly, I'm pretty sure that the whole thing coming to a head when Sarah's friends felt like Sarah was being objectified by not being able to hug other boys, then Emily Golden slapped Brian Daley in the breezeway outside the lunchroom. Oh, Emily, always tried and true to take the heat off of someone else and direct it on herself, but I suppose her efforts were made in good conscious. All the women, who independent, throw your hands up at me.
I suppose that you become more comfortable with the socioeconomic divide as you get older. I still don't believe in those glass ceilings, and that's probably the reason I'm in the mess I'm in right now... sitting in a Target butterfly chair with my feet propped up on a coffee table that was in someone else's house about two days ago. And though I still have a budget that does not allow me to currently attend "Restaurant Week" and a father who does not own two Party Citys, I don't think that should disqualify someone from getting the solo or the life they want. Being a successful adult, I'm learning, is something that cannot be put in a bottle or on a list. It's not about how you look or what you own, or who in Brian's case, but rather it's about knowing what your budget is and using the proper grammar to elucidate exactly why it is you hug people. And as you climb that ladder, someone might jab at you or bring your down or worse, they may just offer to kick your... butt... and that's just a risk you have to be willing to take.

Contraband.

We all thought it was going to be thrown away, and by we, I mean Andrew and I. We never thought it would turn into... this. On a nightly combination McDonalds/Target/Seven-Eleven run, we came across it: a giant brown something sitting on the side of the road. Like most things sitting on the side of the road, we assumed it was free. So in the middle of the night, we meandered across the street, lifted the large wardrobe off the ground and hauled it into our apartment. Done and done. It was supposed to end there, but it didn't. It had only begun.
Proudly, we sat it inside of the apartment, taking in all that it had to offer. The slightly lopsided door, the obscure coat hanger inside, the used tissue neatly stuffed in the corner, and the small baggy that very possibly once had cocaine stored inside of it. Sure, it wasn't the nicest thing in the world, but it was ours. It was our somewhat infectious, possibly diseased bureau. We carried it around, placing it in multiple locations deciding that something so reminiscent of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe obviously belonged in the living room. It wasn't until the next day when I was leaving for work that I noticed a man outside that apartment cleaning the rest of the furniture that we had deemed "unworthy" of our living space. This man was obviously not giving this bureau away... he was just cleaning all the old hankies and dime bags out of it. I ran back into the apartment to tell Andrew what was going on and all that he could say, with a spaced out look on his face was Contraband. What had we done? Once upon a time, we were just these grad students going to one of the most prestigious universities in the country and then, we had become this form of Jada Pinkett and Queen Latifah in Set it Off. He didn't look the same to me. Andrew had assumed this look about him... this F--- the man kind of face, and I knew that I wasn't living with the same person anymore. I mean, shoot... I guess that I wasn't the same person anymore either.
The days dragged on, and we did what we could to ignore our wrong doings, but it was no use. It was haunting us... an uncleaned reminder of our sins just lying there in the middle of the room like a dead body or a leopard print snuggie: something you couldn't miss if you wanted to. We had learned to live with it, no matter how shameful we had become, but it all came to a head when Ray, the Comcast guy came. Ray, upon entering our apartment, announced, F---, how big is this place? This shit is nice. We obviously realized that we had entered into a life of thug-like company. Ray inspected our apartment, dropping words that should never come out of a Comcast man's mouth. When faced with the challenge of actually connecting our cable, he became weary. He didn't want to drill into the wall and asked us to get the apartment manager. When directed toward his office, I realized where exactly the apartment manager lived... at the homesite of the contraband. I ran back into the apartment and immediately enlisted Andrew's help in moving the stolen good elsewhere. We agreed on our roommate's room that hadn't moved in yet. An excellently developed plan if I had ever heard one. As I pushed it down the hallway, I began to reevaluate: who had I become? Would I even recognize this hoodlum if I looked at him in the mirror?
Soon, our apartment was full of people: some woman named Janet, her unnamed Hispanic friend, our apartment manager George, and Ray. After some initial confusion about the drilling, the healthy conversation turned into a trilingual death match: some odd combination of ebonics, slurred English, and Spanish. Andrew and I had no idea what was going on, and the last thing Ray said before leaving was This shit is shady, and when shit gets shady, I get out. A good life philosophy if I've ever heard one. I stood in the doorway, one leg propped behind the other as George announced to himself Surely, there's a cable hook up. Peter, the guy who lived here before was Asian... and he had all them Asian channels, and I know that shit doesn't come through on basic cable. I wondered to myself if this is what city life is like. Maybe, somewhere along the way, we had made the transformation. We were no longer wholesome boys from Tennessee and Wisconsin. We were hood rats, and we liked doing hood rat stuff with our friends, like that little boy who stole the car on YouTube. We had become just like Latarian; just boys caught in the magic of what the big city could have been, had we not been so foolish to get wrapped up in theft, which would inevitably lead to robbery, gang violence, and homemade tattoos.
As I finish this, Andrew is dropping some gangsta remix of "Just the Two of Us," and I know he's changed; I suppose we all have, and I remember the vague memory of who I used to be so long ago... or a week... whatever. And as I'm washing the dishes tonight and reaching behind the feta cheese to get one last glass of Sauvignon Blanc before I got to bed tonight, I'll remember the time I had a chance to be a productive member of society. It changes too fast; I'm sorry Momma.

An Analysis of People I've Met in DC via The Hunger Games

In a city full of dangers and obstacles, it's apparent to me that only the strong survive. As I stuck my leg in the metro today to stop the doors from closing, the metro began to pull away... with my leg. This place is not for the faint of heart, unless you happen to be faint of heart on the metro, in which case you'll fit in perfectly. Everyone seems to sleep on the metro, and it's not a big deal. All you need to do is claim a seat, then just doze off. No one really messes with one another, but if you don't wake up, I have a theory that someone transports your body over to the green line, then you disappear into Anacostia never to be seen again. It's kind of like the canon that gets fired when someone dies in The Hunger Games... actually, speaking of The Hunger Games (available on DVD and BluRay August 18th), let me do a little rundown of my fellow DC-... um... people. I will evaluate their skills with a Hunger Games training score from 1 to 12.

Roommate Andrew
He bakes and seems to be handy with a soccer ball. He keeps his car exceptionally clean and was the first person I met going into the games... I mean, moving to DC. Well, other than Yoli and Peter, but we'll get to that later. For comparison sake, he's the counterpart from my district. When I get sad, sometimes we go to Target, and he decidedly chose not to eat Chick-Fil-A because we discussed the homophobic stigma that comes along with it. In terms of his fighting skill, I'm not sure how he would fare, but I have confidence that as a team, we can at least make it to the final 8. I did, however, threaten to cut his back open with a pizza cutter, and he didn't flinch.
Training score: 9

The Woman Who Asked Me to Put Money in Her Shoe
She wasn't too well kept, but honestly, after traversing the city for a little bit, I don't think that's a requirement that you have to meet. I walked upon her, laying/sitting on a small collection of stairs. She looked at me and said, Hey baby. I mean, she had me from hello. She unlaced her shoe, took if off, and held it toward me. Put mama some money in her shoe. Sadly, there was no spare money for mama to have, and she was not happy when I explained that to her. I imagine that if this had happened in a dark alley, the outcome would have ended differently. She was fierce, and obviously a DC career.
Training score: 10

Fish Sandwich, Fish Sandwich Boy
One night, in a desperate attempt to not go back to our furnitureless apartment, roommate Andrew and I decided to go to the Oriental Supermarket in search of rice noodles, followed by a brief stop at the local McDonalds. I noticed a sign that said "No Loitering. Consumption Time 30 Minutes." This McDonald's don't mess. Yet in bold disregard for the obvious time restraint this McDonald's seemed to be facing, one little boy stood proudly with the largest hand of coupons I've ever seen. Without looking at the cashier, he would repeat everything on the coupon, Fish sandwich for a dollar. Fish sandwich for a dollar. Fish sandwich for a dollar. McFlurry for 99 cents. The list continued on. His inability to make eye contact was precious, but that charm can only last for so long. He was the little Middle Eastern Rue, but even she wasn't quite good enough.
Training score: 6

The "I'd Let Sebastian Bach Spit On Me" Woman
If anything can remind you that the world is much smaller than you would have ever believed, it's got to be the fact that the same trashy people go to Kenny Chensey concerts all across the land. And on a smoke break out to the railings of what may have been the biggest arena I've ever been to, I met her. Who you ask? Oh, only a woman that told me that should we risk getting thrown out of the concert if she could grab Kenny Chesney's "jewels." She then went on to tell me that she had acquired a drumstick from a Nickelback concert, as well as a sweat/spit towel from Sebastian Bach (known famously for his brief role on Celebrity Fit Club and Gilmore Girls, and was apparently in a band as well). She followed by saying that she would let Sebastian Bach put any bodily fluids he wanted on her. Then I walked away. She wouldn't make it far, but if Sebastian Bach were brutally bludgeoned close enough to be sprayed by his blood, she would at least go out happy.
Training score: 5

Black Man Selling Knock Off Tee Shirts
He called me fat and had poorly made tee shirts. He would die first when my fat ass would send a hatchet flying into his back.
Training score: 1

Walmart Enthusiast at Target
Another easily targeted (no pun intended) tribute would be the woman who so excitedly asked my roommate and I if we have ever been to Walmart. As we finished purchasing our cleaning supplies, she explained how it was bigger and that everything there was cheaper. If we had the time, we should check it out. As we hurried out the door, we went to his car. As we put the final items in the car, she appeared again, Oh! Long time no see, boys! How are you?! She was so excited to be there. If someone made it to her before I made it to "Black Man Selling Knock Off Tee Shirts," she would arguably be the weakest character.
Training score: 2

The Girl I Called Fugly Slut After Too Many Tequila Shots
Sometimes people are nice, and sometimes they aren't... kind of like Glimmer from District 2. That's why she got killed by tracker jackers so early into the game. And for all intensive purposes, I dropped a nest of tracker jackers on someone after just one night here. My friend's roommates decided to take me out, and after a girl walked up and loudly announced to me that she was a Marine then called me a "civilian" in the most demeaning tone ever, I was perturbed to say the least. It wasn't until she came back with one of the roommates and deemed me "unattractive" that it happened... Are you serious right now? You are a fugly slut. And that's why we don't ever let Justin drink tequila in the company of strangers. I woke up on the futon the next morning, and she appeared wearing a tee shirt and panties from one of the roommate's rooms, then stepped outside to smoke a Marlboro Red at nine in the morning. I went to the window and took her picture.
Training score: 7 (though she was skanky, it would honestly take a lot to kill someone who hasn't already killed themselves with 9:00am Marlboro Reds)

Landlord Peter
I haven't really been able to understand anything that he's said since I've met him, but I do know that he was super enthusiastic about the fig tree that is growing outside next to our patio and that his cousin came to fix our freon. I'm going to take a far reaching guess and say that Peter is his American name. Also, he has the ability to disappear faster than anyone I've ever seen before... like Foxface.
Training Score: 5

Confessions of an Extrovert

My brother Casey was diagnosed with autism at three years old. As a family, we decided not to tell him in hopes that it would never be something that he would ever let define him... if he happened to find out, so be it, but we weren't going to go out of the way to tell him. No point. He was always going to be the same Casey. One day after watching an episode of Dr. Phil, Casey came into the living room and made an announcement to us: You know guys, I was watching an episode of Dr. Phil and there were these autistic people on there, and after thinking about it, I might be autistic. We all just kind of sat there, looking at one another wondering who was going to step up with the obligatory "ding ding." Casey had figured it out on his own, and I wasn't really sure how learning something so pivotal would feel... until today.
I'm sure that a lot of factors went into my big discovery today: the immediate homesickness, the desperate need to keep my cell phone alive so to have directions to get to the apartment I'm staying at, the lack of sleep that I got in anticipation of this drive, but at the end of the day, regardless of the factors that led me to it, I have something I have to admit: I'm. an. extrovert. Much like the way that I used to say that I had secrets that I kept from people, and that I was super mysterious, I also liked to believe that I was an introvert... or at least someone who could be at peace with himself for eight to ten hours to make a car ride up the coast. But as the day went on, I couldn't take it. I began talking to myself more and more, laughing at my own jokes to fill the void of the usual laughter that follows me witty banter. I would befriend people in cars: people that looked like my dad or people my age, possibly an old woman who looked kind of lonely. They would never make eye contact with me, but I'd follow them and keep watch on their cars. I'd hope that maybe they were secretly doing it to me as well. But if that wasn't evidence enough of my extroversion, stopping at the Wendy's in Fisherville, Virginia definitely was.
I walked in and they were everywhere: humans. I wanted to talk to them all; I wanted to hug them and invade their personal space. I wanted us to talk about all the things we had in common and the couple things we didn't, and then I would prematurely add them on Facebook, secretly doubting whether I had sent them a request too soon, but convincing myself otherwise. We would talk occasionally online, sometimes reminding one another of how we met or the one time I ordered the Asiago Chicken Club, and it would all seem important again. Once I sat down, I felt distanced again... nervous, even. I didn't want to be alone. I had convinced myself in a matter of seven minutes that Fisherville might just be the city for me to live in. No need to travel for three more hours; there were people here, and they would suffice just fine.
And as I sat there, holding back tears until the gray haired man with a small ponytail held together with a red rubber band sat down next to me (it took everything in my body to not say, hey girl, I like your weave.), it hit me... you love people way too much. As if someone had sat the social sorting hat on my head, I knew at that point, if I had ever fought the idea of it before that I was... indeed... an extrovert. And then all of my past, selfish mistakes came rushing in. For some reason, maybe because Rory Gilmore was and I wanted to be too, I thought I could at least pretend to be an introvert. I would purposefully go after introverted friends and introverted relationships. It made all the sense in the world; all the times that these people that were so like me would tell me that they needed their time to just be by themselves or think, I would completely freak out. There must be something wrong with me; my funny is obviously broken. Why couldn't I constantly entertain them?! Why were they so weird. They weren't introverted like me. They were nothing like me at all.
And in my own version of a Dr. Phil show, the illusion came crashing down on me today. I've never been close to an introvert; I couldn't be if I wanted. And I suppose this is as good as time as ever to just go ahead and apologize for all the years of deception and loosely veiled attempts at being an introvert. I'm sorry when you said you needed "some alone time" that I interpreted that as "you should come along with me for some alone time." I apologize for all the times that I thought that "I don't want to talk about it" meant "Just keep asking me; I'm just trying really hard to make you work for it." Apparently, I never really understood what it meant to be an introvert because I wasn't ever really comprehending the concept of maybe not wanting to talk to people. I don't understand your people, just like you don't understand mine. But if I can promise you one thing, it's that the claw marks on my driver's side window don't lie... I long for people; I suppose it's the curse of an introvert.

Go Ahead and Cry For Me, Argentina

So, I cried tonight. We're not talking some sniffles and a couple gasps... these were big old bitch baby tears. The kind of snotty cry that leaves you looking at yourself in the mirror just because even you are surprised that someone can contort their face into something that looks so simultaneously pitiful and confusing at the same time. It makes me want to be a puppy, because even when puppies are whining and crying, we want to hug them and love them and be their friend. But when I cry, at least like I did tonight, it makes me look like something akin to Cher's son in Mask. (And because I just Google searched that, I won't sleep for the rest of the night. Super.)

But in the long run, I think I like crying; sometimes, I think I do it for sport. And other than that one commercial that comes on during Christmas when that girl's brother comes home from African and fixes himself some coffee, then she puts the bow on him and says You're my gift this year, I usually don't cry that often. I learned to control it, especially the intense ones, because of my excessive tears shed in elementary school. If one could dehydrate from tears, I would have from ages five to nine. But every once in a while, a good cry is fantastic... cathartic even. It's your moment to completely own everything inside of you, and if you're going to take the time to cry, just go ahead and cry about everything. Sure, your boyfriend just broke up with you, but don't forget about the economy and those one-eyed dogs on the ASPCA commercial, and how Mags died in Catching Fire (spoiler alert!), and all those smallpox blankets the Europeans brought over to the Native Americans. Just go ahead and ball your eyes out about everything that might have bothered you because in such a fast paced society, you may not get the chance to cry again for some time. I think I may have even cried about how Gabby Douglas didn't do so well on the uneven bars this week, and then I cried because it was time for a nice African American girl to win the all around. I cried about everything, and it was great!
And I'm no stranger to a good tear fest. Back my senior year of high school, during what was supposed to be an assembly about graduation, I received my second consecutive D on an English paper. I was done. Capoot. I'm not saying that grades regularly brought me to tears; I like to believe I cry about mostly important things, but with graduation at hand and so many Ds served all at once, I think I was well overdue for a cry. So, I walked into Mrs. Freels' Art I class full of a bunch of freshman with tears streaming down my face, threw myself into the darkroom revolving door and just cried in that extremely dark photography corridor. Mrs. Freels followed behind and I explained everything to her: the graduation, the Ds, my fear of everything in the world, probably something topical I had seen on TV that week and she responded, Well, just cry. Keep crying until it's all out. I can't remember the last time that I cried... most adults can't. That's why we're all in therapy because we're too embarrassed to do exactly what we all want to do: cry. This is healthy; I wish we could all be this healthy. And then her words made me stop crying because I was confused. I didn't understand... why don't adults cry? I know after a good cry, I'm ready for a nap because my eyes are tired, and I usually rest like a dream.

And from that day, I've never stopped a good cry from happening because if my absolute distain for celery, running, and daily vitamins doesn't have me in the ground by forty, then I really can't afford to not be mentally healthy by withstanding a nice cry. And I'm sure I'll cry more in the coming weeks, and you know what, I think you should, too. Maybe not about me (but honestly, you can cry about me if you want.), but find a reason to cry about something: rising gas prices, the unrest in Israel, not having another episode of Dallas until January, what I'm sure is to be an overwrought and complexly historical closing ceremony of this year's Olympics... there really is a multitude of options that await you. And in all seriousness, who are we if we stop crying. We hold back all these emotions because we've been taught that as we grow older, we should. You don't dance in the car in fear that someone will see. You don't laugh or smile because we're in the professional world now. You don't cry because if Hilary Swank has taught us anything, it's that boys don't cry. And then what do you have? Another generation of jaded, angry adults. Life doesn't have to lead anyone down that path. Take time to laugh and take time to smile. And for God's sake, if the knot in your throat is the size of an apple and your eyes are watering like an efficient landscaper in July, then cry. Even if it is just about those dogs that Sarah McLachlan won't quit singing about.

Jesus Loves You, Charlotte Howard

Sometimes, I look back on my time as a child and ask myself, How the hell did you get to this point in your life without being murderer for being such a little jerk? In my defense, I was the butt of a lot of jokes, a lot of which have been covered in previous stories, but like most stories, there's always another side to the coin. There are a lot of responses that a kid can have to being bullied, but one of the more ridiculous ones was one that I once gave a shot: bullying other people back. However, as the communication savvy young man I've always been, I made sure that I had a getaway, and what better getaway can you have other than the word of Jesus Christ? I mean, people have used him for years to do super shiesty things: all the way from the Crusades to Chick-Fil-A investments. And how am I to judge any of those people, when I, myself, have used the Lord as a weapon of destruction.

Eighth grade is hard; I was at the peak of my wind breaker phase, and my self-esteem was at an all time low. Other than having an exceptionally close relationship with my teachers, a weekly appointment with the guidance counselor to talk about my acute depression, and an anchor role on "Cherokee Television," I didn't really have a lot going for me. I didn't have a claim to fame for anything other than being the face for "Homeroom Feud" and having exceptionally thick lensed glasses.

When asked if I could go back to any point in my life, which part would it be, I responded, "I don't know, but it wouldn't be middle school." Middle schoolers are mean, mean people that have just started to understand some of the diversities and differences of the world. We've graduated into the internet and the dangerous things we can do with instant messaging and Myspace, and we loved nothing more than tearing each other down, so when presented with the opportunity to do the tearing, as opposed to being the one torn upon, I jumped on it. I wasn't apart of any of the official planning, but when approached in the hallway by the local preacher's daughter, who was also one of the more popular girls, I followed. That's just what you do as a middle schooler: you follow the "powerful." She pointed out our [literal] target: Charlotte Howard.

I had known Charlotte Howard since kindergarten. She had always been the straight laced girl pressed upon way to heavily by her parents. No Rugrats because Angelica was mean; she was allowed to watch Veggie Tales and Wishbone for their religious and intellectual potential, respectively. Looking back on the situation as a twenty-two year old, I probably would have thrown up a middle finger to everything I had known, too. Middle school welcomed a whole new lifestyle for Charlotte: to quote one, Jay-Z, she had "black cards, black cars, all black everything." She had denounced God and befriended our school's token Atheist from California. Yeah, California. Essentially, Charlotte had seemingly overnight become the middle school bully's dream. And in an attempt to alleviate a little pressure off my overweight, nerdy, completely uncool self, I joined in.

Emily handed me a pencil, a light blue piece of unsharpened wood adorned with a Bible verse I can't seem to recall, and told me the plan. Once she walked out of class, we would set it all into action, and we would end it by taking our weapons and pummeling the demons right out of her. She came around the corner, and I looked down at the pencil, and it was as if future Justin was speaking to pathetic, tiny 8th grade Justin, Dude, look at what you're doing. Are you seriously going to d-- It was too late. The pencil went flying, and we followed with a total mockery of the very thing we were supposedly representing, Jesus, loves you Charlotte! What. had. I. done.

The next day, we were all called to the principal, completely ignorant that we would be called in for something other than an award or accomplishment... especially considering that we were all called in together. So it was quite the surprise that we were all up for pending sanctions for religious harassment, which fell under the Zero Tolerance policy. If it hadn't been for Charlotte, we would have all been suspended. And the irony of it all, is that her "attackers" are now a bisexual, two known lesbians, a college drop out, and a retail worker. God, the actual merciful one... not the one that we supposedly represented, only knows what kind of hell we were all going through at the time that we decided to do it, because I will stand by the idea that we only exhibit hate toward others because of the insecurities and doubts that we have in ourselves.

When thinking back on the whole charade, I'm sure that it reads as something with a little bit of humor, and even to Charlotte, the story tends to bring a smile to her face, but for me, it's probably one of the most embarrassing things I've ever done. After eighth grade, I never went back to another youth group, and I found the God that I worship on my own terms. Charlotte and I just graduated from college together, and somehow along the way, we kind of met in the middle of the Christian/Satanic continuum, if you will. But to quote Saved!, "The Bible is not a weapon!" I just wish that more young, enthusiastic Christians had been sent into Sherry Hensely's office to shed a little light on the differences between witnessing and full blown alienation.

Wishing, Hoping, Waiting... Tables.

I started my summer in the closet, and today, that's where I ended it. We all wish for these beginnings and endings because in a way, it's comforting; there's a start and a finish, and that's something that we can count on, and as life goes on those moments start to dissipate. Everything becomes much more blurry than what we were counting on. We had a period we spent in diapers, and then we stopped. Growing up, there was a period where I would only eat my hamburgers plain, and even though I have a distaste for most red meat these days, I've learned to put actual sauces and vegetables with my sandwiches. Another period complete. So there's quite a comfort that I ended up in the closet, again, as this summer draws to a close. It's cyclical and familiar, but I was in the closer for two very different reasons.

When I started this project, I was hiding in the closet because I didn't know what to do. I didn't know the people I worked with, and I didn't care to. I wanted to make money, and when I wasn't sure what to do, I would retreat to the closet and turn all the disinfectant bottles forward, count the aprons and rags, etc. And today, I hid my going away presents behind those same aprons and rags: a card from my boss, a penis shaped balloon that had "cum see me soon" written in sharpie, a sperm shaped shot with some milky mixture inside, and a can of V8 to represent a Bloody Mary that Paula said we would always share together. And though I should have been laughing at the absurdity of the gifts, or possibly even repulsed if I were the uptight kind, as I stuffed it all on the back of the shelf, I started crying. And then I couldn't stop crying... crying in the closet--nothing I'm too unfamiliar with.

And it shouldn't surprise anyone close to me that I was crying; much like the end monologue of arguable the best MTV movie ever released, Varsity Blues, "Billy Bob cries because Billy Bob is a crier." I'm a bit of a Billy Bob. And as the small icon on my computer shifts from Aug. 3 to Aug. 4, my stomach drops a little bit more: not because I'm scared of the city that I'm going to or because I'll be essentially homeless when I leave for it in five days, but because of what I'm leaving behind. My hometown, my family, my friends... my restaurant.

As I began my final night of waiting, the first table I picked up was one of my favorites: a man and his wife with these two little ginger nuggets. They come in regularly, so I watch for them. And then the rest of the night is a giant blur of random faces throughout the night. The two old ladies at the table near the window, the woman and man who took their spot whose catfish I dropped on the floor, the family who invited me to sit down... so I did and proceeded to prop my feet up. If for just a moment, they're all special, important. I get their food, and we exchange some funny words--I try to make a joke, and most of the time, someone laughs. Then as we start to close up, someone comes in, and of course, they want an appetizer. Then they want the actual meal, and then their kid drops a full Diet Coke on the ground. But tonight, one of the last couples out was the two old women that Marsha originally referred to as "the whores of Seymour." They asked me about moving, and in the middle of sweeping, I decided to sit down. And though I would say that I'm never fake, for one of the first time, I actually have a real conversation with a customer. They warn me again about all those black people in DC and how they castrate white people like me. I tell them as long as they'll pray for me, I'll do my best to come back and visit. I walked them out to their car, and the one with orange tinted glasses tells me that she knows people up around the White House. She'll give them a call.

And once the open light goes off, I wipe down the tables and start sweeping, which I've never been good at. Paula usually comes by and unties my apron or grabs my ass; Megan pretends that she doesn't like me, even though I know that there's a soft spot there. Marsha's gone home at this point, devastated by the loss of a local politician. Marsha loves Dick, and by Dick I mean Richard, and by Richard, I mean Richard Montgomery. Doris is still complaining how the new girl never cleans out the tea holders correctly, and Mike's ignoring everyone while he counts the money. And last but not least, Eleanor follows behind, somehow finding more dirt on the floor than what I swept up to begin with. It's a snapshot--this picturesque family that I didn't ask for but somehow managed to stumble upon.

And like most teenage boys in a nuclear family, I play my part and pretend like I'm there for the money, which in part... I am, especially when this all started. To avoid leaving, I put all the jelly holders back on the table for breakfast; I double sweep a couple of places I've already swept, I clean the bathrooms. Once I finish up everything I'm supposed to do for the night, I realize that it's probably the last time I'll throw my apron in the "this apron smells like shit now" container, and like clockwork... for the second time in one shift, I'm standing in the closet, crying. I wasn't really sure why it was happening again, but it was tear after tear falling from my face, as if I were about to leave my actual family. So I pull myself together and finally commit to leaving. Eleanor hugs me and tells me that she'll see me soon, and I say my goodbyes. Then I drive home, pretending it's something I'll repeat for the rest of my life.