I Took Your Hair Gel, Bro

Today was hard, guys. I knew it was going to be a Monday--like, Monday was going to come at me like a large white woman yearning for a Furby on Black Friday circa 1998. Admittedly, I wasn't prepared. I wanted to believe that it was going to be okay, but it all came crashing down around noon o'clock. My roommate texted me to let me know that the estimate for his Lexus that I backed into was going to be approximately 2 to 3 million dollars. Fortunately, our insurance is about to run out or doesn't cover white on white damage or is just really terrible, so there was this big question of "am I going to be paying for the 500 dollar deductible that I can't afford, or will I be paying the 2 to 3 million dollar damage that I... still can't afford?" The past weekend was long and this news was not how I wanted to start out my week, so I pulled my signature 23 year old man move: I cried in the bathroom. Twice.
I returned to my desk defeated, pre-reminscing over times where I had money in my bank account when I saw it: this New Yorker article from David Sedaris. He talked about his sister's suicide and the impact it had on his family over the past six months or so. David Sedaris' writing is always funny, but now all of a sudden, the guy I usually look to for laughs was making me reflect on my own life. Maybe I couldn't afford life right now, and maybe I wouldn't be able to pay rent, but it wasn't this. At least everyone was alive--at least I was alive. We all have these issues that come up in our lives--these moments that make us just kind of want to give up, and we selfishly forget what other people may be facing. I don't know what to do in my situation, but at least I have my life and my pseudo-health, and a roof over my head (for now). But most of all, thank God I have my hair gel. It's not something that all of us can say.
Tragedies like death and loss of hair gel can take a while to recover from, so I've kept this story concealed for a while, close to my heart, where the worst of tragedies should remain. Upon moving to DC, or "The District," I know that I tried my best to just be friends with everyone. I didn't know anyone, and I couldn't afford to make an enemy. So essentially, if I got invited to a party I went. There was too much at stake to lose. So one night, my roommates and I went over to some kind of theme party. Ultimately, it was a whole bunch of young professionals trying to encompass the ideal of what it means to be a young professionals. In reality, we all just really like cheap wine, and we didn't know what to do at a social gathering without playing a drinking game. After a little while, we had given up on the yo-pro lifestyle and we were all just back to junior year of college, slapping cups off table and drinking wine out of the bottle (okay, I was drinking wine out of the bottle. so what. who cares).
The night was growing sillier and sillier, and suddenly I found myself in the middle of gossip: one of my favorite things to find myself in the middle of. Our party's host had arguably drank way more than she should have, and the guy who lived next door had as well. They had disappeared into the night (or his apartment, whatever), and a small section of the party was just abuzz about it. His roommate, a spritely young fellow with particularly manicured hair, seemed most concerned, "I know I should step in and say something, but I don't want to be a cockblock." Cockblock: the bro-iest of bro terms. As a Brother of a fraternity for three years in college, I was no stranger to the bro terms, nor was I a stranger to being the guy who inevitably was the "cockblock" for the greater good. I immediately volunteered because I care about women's rights and walking in on other people having sexy time is particularly hilarious.
We formulated a plan: I would go use the bathroom because the one in the partypartment was taken. Flawless. I knew it wouldn't take much work to stop the activity because they hadn't been in there for very long. There was no way they were in mid-coitus yet, and even if they were, I would just do what my dad did when two of our dogs got "caught up" while reproducing: pour warm water on them until it loosened up. And yes, dogs DO get "caught up" sometimes. It's a thing: watch here. Anyway, they were just making out on the couch, so I pulled the classic Justin move and said, "Oh gosh, I'm sorry. I'm so embarrassed. I'm going to go to the bathroom!" I stepped into the bathroom and gave them the appropriate amount of time to separate. In that thirty seconds, I got bored. I was wearing a big black hoodie that night (#Justice4Trayvon), and because I was such a good citizen, I felt like I deserved a prize. I decided to heist some hair gel that I saw on the counter... Garnier Fructis to be exact. Nothing too fancy--your standard mid-shelf styling product, apparently designed for surfers, though there's no legitimate waves anywhere near Washington D.C. I didn't think what I had done was a big deal, and yes, I bragged about it a little because, well, wine. But I was wrong. Just like that, I had spat on the alter of bro culture. I had stolen the hair gel, the paste if you will, and in the process... stolen a piece of the same spritely bro who I originally was helping out.
A couple of days went by before news had hit. But, as we all know, you can't thieve hair gel/paste without it eventually bubbling to the surface. The next week, the party's host revealed to me that she had tattled: bro knows. And bro was pissed. I wasn't sure when I would see him again, so I assumed the fire would eventually die. Sometimes, I forget when someone screws me over like ten minutes after it happened, but I was so wrong. A couple weeks later, he deleted me from Facebook, and when he decided to have a birthday bash, he invited all of my friends except for me. Nothing felt okay anymore, and I had never been purposefully not invited to a party. People loved having me at parties, and it's not like I stole a television or anything. I mean, if it would fit in my hoodie pocket, maybe, but that's an absurd thought. A television would obviously not fit in my hoodie pocket. Regardless, I found no legitimate reason to not go to the party, so... I invited myself. I'm from the South though, and if I learned anything about etiquette, you never go to a party without a gift. A couple hours before the rager/soiree, I decided to go to CVS and buy some, you guessed it, Garnier Fructis. I wanted to use the mid-grade paste to patch up the split ends of what was once a respectable acquaintanceship. I wanted to be loved again.
Once we got to the party, I noticed that he avoided me. I heard through the grapevine he never wanted to see my face again, which... I repeat, is over a canister of hair gel. But I've always had naturally tame, luscious hair, so maybe I'm just really underselling the importance of hair care products. Finally, I had him cornered. The only thing he could hit me with was his fists, a bag of Goldfish, and a half empty bowl of stale Tostitos (I knew they were stale because I singlehandedly ate the rest of the chips in the bowl). I nervously approached him and said, "Hey, so, I know that you know that I know that you know about me taking your hair gel. I had a lot of wine, and that was a really bad mistake, soooo... I brought you this." I brought the hair gel around from my back like a proud second grader presenting some macaroni art to his mother. He said, "Oh cool," took the hair gel, tossed it on the table, and walked away. Not cool, bro. Not cool. Throughout the rest of the night, I drank Milwaukee's Best from a keg, ate stale chips, and called it a day. I had lost the social struggle, and when I lose, I stress eat.
Unfortunately, I never salvaged what we kind of once had, you know, when we were at parties with mutual friends. Sometimes my friends bring it up to me, and I get really defensive about it and talk about how it wasn't even that great. Sometimes his friends bring it up to him, and apparently he reference how I didn't even get the right brand to repay him with. As my boss sometimes tells me, the devil's in the details. Damn it. But in the end, these moments are learning moments: the losing of a sibling means that you should appreciate your family and show them love every single day without a pause. The hitting the car... pay attention more often, particularly at the end of your driveway. The stealing of the hair gel? Be conscious of your decisions whether you're tipsy or sober.

As for having your hair gel stolen? I guess that means you need to hide your shit, bro.

The Taking of WMATA 123

I just wanted to go home.

I could see them eyeing me from across the car, one of the most unfortunate times to be a bigger guy. I was a meal--a Thanksgiving feast to all these drunkards, and in the midst of all their McDonalds munchies, I looked like a combination Big Mac, Supersize Fry, 20 piece nugget, Diet Coke smorgasbord. The white people were, officially, out of control. I had always wondered what it would be like to be in this moment--the day that people reverted back to their animalistic ways. And all I could do was sit there and think, How did I get here? What led me to this moment? Let me tell you.

***

About six hours earlier, my roommate and I decided to go into the city for a Beerlympics competition. Sure, it seemed a little college-y, but I'm an addict for competition. Shortly after we arrived, we were sorted into teams, and the games began. After a handful of beers, we decided to go and meet some friends in another part of the city. After navigating the crowded floor of Cafe Citron via a combination of walking/salsa-ing to Jennifer Lopez hits, we finally found our group. As a classic group of 20-somethings, we danced awkwardly in a circle for approximately 20 minutes, fist pumped, and then decided to leave. No one was inebriated beyond help or anything, but it was obvious that we wouldn't be driving--there were only a couple options left and, sadly, one of those was taking the metro back toward home.

The Saturday night metro isn't really a place that you ever want to be because it's a completely mixed bag. Sometimes people throw up; sometimes people are making out; sometimes you don't even want to know what happens. So before we got on the metro, I called our other roommate, our last hope, before we got on the train headed toward our apartment. Normally, I would have given up after one call, but the mixture of competition and low-grade beer made me more optimistic than usual. Five calls later, there was finally an answer: a groggy roommate who was not going to pick us up. The moment had come to face what would be the most absurd and slightly dangerous Saturday night metro yet. Most of the time, if you just keep to yourself everything turns out fine. I mean, sure, you might get awkwardly approached by someone, but it's a relatively painless process because the metro runs on a timetable, or at least that's what we like to believe. We transferred over from the red line over to the orange, and it seemed as if the ride was going to be relatively patient, until the next to the last stop. On the way to the station we needed to get off at, the train came to a halt in the middle of the tunnel, and we were stranded in the car with a train full of people and a faulty speaker.

Whenever the train stops in the tunnel, I immediately imagine that we're under the Potomac, even if we're not. I imagine that the walls are going to cave in, and then I'm going to have to swim out of the tunnel Fear Factor style--and then I immediately regret smoking because I'm going to lose and then there's not going to be any trained swimmers to save me. And then something happened on the metro, as if everyone else was also thinking that the walls might cave in to. Essentially, everyone went bat shit crazy. It all started when two large women got up from their seats and addressed the young men who kept staring at them. They had green and purple tubes coming out of their hair, kind of like The Hunger Games, but without any regard to trying to look glamorous. This only caused the guys to egg them on more, which caused the one with green tubes and suspenders to get up and start grinding on the pole, which in turn caused everyone to pull out their cameras and start videoing the entire thing. I, too, pulled out my camera because I knew that if I made it out of that godforsaken train car, I wanted to write about it--our fear and our pain. 

My friend Samantha sat their, her eyes full of worry. We've gotten close, but none of us wanted to go out like this, and under the influence of alcohol, it seemed all too real that this could really be it. Suddenly, one of the guys next to us announced, "Maybe we need to start voting people out." This seemed like my moment, so I began working with the gay guy and his overbearing friend next to us. If I've learned anything this summer from watching Big Brother, it's that America LOVES the gays, so that's a good addition to my alliance. We also decided to include the girl who was passed out in the seat in front of them because, well, God only knows what would happen to her if we didn't... but it was at that moment that we heard screams from the other side of the metro, and we looked down  the car to see that the two large women were pulling away from each other and saying, "We'll give you something to take pictures of!!" and then they started making out again. The guy they were with who was wearing a Juggalo shirt stood propped up against the door nodding his head, and someone screamed, "Let's eat someone! Let's eat someone!"

It was at that moment that I realized that we weren't on Big Brother, nor were we in a metro car anymore... this was Lord of the Flies kind of stuff. Over the course of 20 minutes, we had progressed from a normal, semi-unstable Saturday night metro train to an island full of one-time-young-professionals contemplating who to kill for food. I worried first and foremost about the girl who was passed out. Being a young female passed out in an urban setting is already dangerous enough, but being in this urban setting only made the situation more pressing. I knew the obvious choice was probably the outlandish lesbians, but I couldn't help to feel paranoid: I was one of the meatiest options. I would provide the most nutrition--I could sustain at least half the car for at least thirty minutes. I thought about the future and what it could have been, and I began to actually wonder if that train car was where it would all end. In the mean time, everyone was screaming, begging the metro car to start moving, and the speaker would occasionally erupt into a loud noise that mostly sounded like, "Passengers...time...sorry...thanks."

And then the train surged forward. All the lesbians, alliances, and Juggalos couldn't keep me from the excitement I had in my heart. It was as if I had been saved, and once the doors opened, I hugged Samantha goodbye and ran out the doors with my roommate. One young man stopped to tell a metro worker that he was an "inbred piece of..." well, you get the idea, and in a last moment attempt to restore civility to the world, I yelled, "Everyone has lost their damn minds. Go home. Everyone go home," and people started moving toward the escalators. You never know what the future holds, but when you're stuck on a metro of potential-cannibals, you do learn to appreciate whatever is ahead. Again, I survived the Saturday night metro, but as for the next one... you can never be sure.

My Life, On The Oregon Trail

As a small child in elementary school, I would tune myself out from the rest of the world and invest everything I had into the teal Apple computer in the back left corner of the classroom. Nothing anyone said to me was of any importance because this was a special time. For an hour or so, I was God. After the computer actually got started up after about 10 minutes, I double-clicked it: The Oregon Trail. And even from early adolescence, my inability to let trivial disputes go and my speedy attachment issues prevailed--exclude me from playing Four Square? You're going in the wagon. You told me we were best friends while we were learning about multiplication tables? You're going in the wagon.

Yeah she does. And she probably deserved it.

A lot of different things could get you in the wagon, but the most important factor in a venture on the Oregon Trail was the mood I was in that day. If it was a rough day at school, you could be sure as shit that I was going to ford the river every time. Looking back, if anyone had found out that I was using The Oregon Trail as a virtual means of revenge, I probably wouldn't have been allowed to play it anymore... actually, I probably would have ended up on a list somewhere. But in the end, I never cared too much about finishing the journey--that took like... four more hours than I had, and I never cared enough to save it to my floppy disk (YEAH, that was a thing). The Oregon Trail was my fix, similar to what I imagine someone feels after doing cocaine.
But after my seven to eleven year old vengeance was completed, I realized that there was no Oregon Trail in middle school, and that's a shame because middle school is definitely the time that you need some revenge-Oregon-Trail. The game persisted in my mind though, and even through college, sometimes I imagined who I would put in my wagon. I would assign people roles, and I contemplated which weak friend would be the one to come down with typhoid of dysentery. But when I moved up to DC and started living in an apartment and doing more adult things, I realized that The Oregon Trail, much like life, is not something that you plan. The Oregon Trail is something that happens to you. Life is pretty much reflective of everything on The Oregon Trail: sickness, lost materials, negotiating with people you meet along the trail, gathering over 200 pounds of food and having to leave some behind. But most of all, I realized that the more alcohol you add to the situation, the more out of control the trail becomes.
So one night, all us pioneers (Jill, Andrew, Ben, Nicole, Catherine, Catherine's brother, Nicole's boyfriend--yeah, I know you can only include five people in your wagon. This is my Oregon Trail, I do what I want) decided that we were going to go out for a night in Arlington. Everything seemed to be going well:

Weather: Fair
Health: Excellent
Food: Enough, I guess
Miles Traveled: 0

We all met at Jill and Catherine's and started to drink before going out to a nice place called Clarendon Ballroom, an establishment that houses a good 85% of Arlington's frat boys and hipsters. They only play 45 second clips of songs, and epileptics are not encouraged to go there. But while waiting for Nicole and her boyfriend to show up at Independence, Missouri, or the apartment, everyone had imbibed enough that we decided no one was going to drive, and thus, our first game move: wait for a ferry (taxi) across the river.

Weather: Fair
Health: Silly
Food: Less than before, but still okay
Miles Traveled: 1.2

We had to take two ferries to get to the bar because apparently Arlington doesn't have ferries big enough for everyone. After we got to the establishment, I regretted choosing farmer instead of banker because I needed to stop at the ATM. (By the way, why was farmer ever a good option?) I walked with Nicole and her boyfriend to retrieve money, and then soon after we entered. With me at my resting annoyed-rate of 4, I decided not to drink but rather watch those around me. I made people come out to the dance floor, and eventually, everyone started consuming more and more alcohol. People began to get more and more intoxicated, but it didn't matter because that's how you play the game--at a grueling pace. Nicole told me that I didn't know how to dance, and then her and her boyfriend left. I can only assume they were eaten by a bison or perhaps contracted cholera and died. Either way, they were off the trail. RIP.

Weather: Whatever
Health: Fair
Food: This will be more applicable later.
Miles Traveled: 1.2

Because Arlington is comprised of mostly rich, old people, the bar was closing at 1 that night and by that time, it had become painfully obvious who was going to be hung over and who was not. As I was ushering people out of the bar with Catherine and her brother, it was apparent that some members of the wagon had lost some wheels, axles, and approximately 45 pounds of food along the way. Soon after we got everyone outside, Catherine and her brother left, probably in passive disgust that they were even on the wagon to begin with. So, there I was--sober as could be with three people left: Andrew, who ran across the street without looking, Ben, who looked as if he had contracted typhoid, and Jill. Jill seemed to be fine, so while Andrew and Ben went inside a 24 hour diner, Jill stayed outside while I smoked.
Jill began to tell me about her life and how everything seemed to be different. At that point, she asked me if she could have a puff of my cigarette. By this time, I was just happy to have someone to talk with who could speak in complete sentences. But after just a couple of puffs, everything changed. Jill began to cry, and I asked her What's wrong? And with smoke still seeping out from her lips, she announced, Please don't tell the boys, but I think I'm pregnant. And then I went into panic mode. This is that point in Oregon Trail when everyone's dying, health is poor, no one has food, and the weather is hot. I immediately grabbed the cigarette from her and instructed her to go inside.

Weather: We're inside the diner, doesn't matter
Health: Terrible
Food: Way over the 200 pound limit, everyone ordered too much
Miles traveled: Too many

Within the first five minutes, Jill announced her "pregnancy," Andrew wanted breakfast, and Ben didn't have his debit card. So I had to go negotiate with the people at the bar, Indian style, to get the debit card back. By the time I returned, the food had arrived, and Jill was taking a leave of absence in the bathroom. She had forded the river, Virginia Woolf style. At this point, she was a goner. For my troubles, I left a substantial tip for the waitress on Jill's card because she was still in the bathroom, and then we got another ferry to take Jill home. Finally, it was just Ben, Andrew, and me. As soon as we got in the car to drive home, Andrew "fell asleep" in the front seat, probably from measles, which left on two surviving wagon members: Ben with typhoid, and me. I managed to get the wagon back to our apartment, but only after losing six of the original wagon members, seven oxen, all the food, and at least 4 boxes of bullets.
But that's the thing about The Oregon Trail, and life in general... you don't really play to be a hero and make the highest score--you just play to survive. We found out the next day that Jill was not pregnant at all--apparently that was just something she needed to say whilst on the trail. Andrew's measles nap was apparently completely premeditated, and everyone else's departure was made with clear minds. However, what happens on the trail is nothing to be ashamed of, and it's nothing we should hold over one another's heads for revenge because the Oregon Trail is a messy place. If life were as easily planned as a game that can be saved on a colorful floppy disk (mine was yellow, for those interested), then it would probably be a lot easier than it is. But we ford rivers and lose axels and sometimes people get cholera, but it's not about what happens on the trail--it's just about making it to the end.

The Art of Rabbit Hunting

When I was younger, I used to go rabbit hunting with my dad. It was one of my favorite of all the hunting genres because it didn't require you to be quiet, and you got to walk around and do what you want for the most part. We would also bring along all of our hunting beagles (Andy, Alison, Gunner, Jimmy, Ed, and Coleen... the WIVK on-air staff) and they'd run around and bark and sniff things and when dad wasn't looking I would pet them or try to feed them leaves... you know... because it's funny to watch dogs eat leaves, especially when you're bored. But it wasn't until I got older that I realized how much I learned from going on these trips with my dad. Though I never got the itch for going out and shooting things, my love for stretching metaphors and meaningful life experiences ended up making the hunting trips way more applicable than I thought they would be.

The lessons would always come up in the most unpredictable of ways, and it was senior year of college that I realized exactly what it meant to be a good rabbit hunter. When it come to running around with a gun in the woods, I was always a little overly cautious--I always had a fear of shooting my dad in the face, or more likely, shooting one of the dogs. Once I actually shot a rabbit, I told my dad I was done; I kind of considered it more of a feat that I shot a rabbit and nothing else, and that's kind of the way that I went about the rest of my life. Get in, get out, call it a day.

And that's the exact approach that I took to my last Cinco de Mayo. My senior year was winding down quickly and after thesis and comprehensive exams were over, there wasn't really anything to do but show up to class and then celebrate with people in our spare time. The drink of choice at Maryville College is arguably a toss-up between boxed wine or margaritas at a local Mexican restaurant and considering that it was Cinco de Mayo (and a Saturday, mind you), margaritas were the obvious choice. I had decided that because it was too predictable for seniors to get drunk and make bad decisions, I would tread lightly in Margaritaville, but it didn't take too many margaritas for all of us to start reminiscing about the three years that had gone by. Then, someone inevitably said that we were all probably never going to be in the same place again at the same time, and that's when we all ordered more margaritas and ended up posing "Last Supper" style.

But after the initial margaritas, I had decided that tonight was the night: the night to go rabbit hunting. I was fresh out of a relationship and had been eyeing someone in particular for some time. I knew the follow up party that I needed to go to, and I knew that this would probably be my last chance to even solidify a decent conversation, let alone anything further than that, so I set off for the chase. Once the party had started, I wasn't sure how I would accomplish my goal, and like most of the hunts that I went on with my dad, I was pretty much ready to give up and go home after thirty unsuccessful minutes. Even as a senior, chasing after a freshman rabbit, I didn't have much confidence, and I didn't believe in my hunting skills. After all, this wasn't just a rabbit. This was a pretty rabbit who was transferring to a college in New York; everyone wanted to shoot this rabbit, metaphorically of course. (Disclaimer: I neither condone, nor encourage, anyone to shoot another person. Maybe I should lay off the metaphor for a bit.)

So as the night continued and the bottle of tequila grew less and less full, I committed to my cause. The funny part about guys is that we're stupid when we're interested in someone. We do things and say things that we would never have otherwise, so of course, I made sure that we were interested in all the same things. And I guess, in a way, the same logic applies to hunting. There's a specific way that you walk when you're in the woods, even if you're rabbit hunting. You tread lightly, and you try not to make yourself too obvious because you don't want the rabbits to run before you get within eyesight of them. And there's two types of hunting: the kind where you sit and wait, and the kind where you're constantly moving, and of course, last Cinco de Mayo, I was constantly moving.

After the conversation had run out, I was running around the party trying to entertain in any way possible to keep my rabbit's attention, but nothing seemed to be sealing the deal. When the rabbit suggested that we should jump into a pool with all of our clothes on, I went for it. And when the pool was only three feet deep and I scraped my knees on the concrete pool bottom, I just kept going because it seemed like that's what you're supposed to do. But then, toward the end of the night, I had noticed that the rabbit had disappeared, and there were only two explanations as to what could have happened: the rabbit had left the party or someone else had shot the rabbit.

Disappointed, I went from room to room looking/sulking for the rabbit when I knocked on one of my friend's doors. He barely opened the door and put his face in the crack and asked what I wanted. Don't get me wrong, everyone deserves to get with whomever they want, but there's an ethical code to every hunt, and my dad's words suddenly shot back into my head: Justin, you should never shoot a sitting rabbit: no matter what. There could be something wrong with it, like wobbles. (Just in case you don't know, "huntchat.com" explains that wobbles are actually warbles, and warbles are parasites that cause white lumps in squirrels and rabbits. If they have warbles, you can apparently die. Congrats, you learned something today.) So when he barely had the door open, I had this gut feeling, almost like a mother's intuition, to push the door open farther.

When I pushed the door, I saw a pair of feet laying on his bed; they didn't look like normal feet though--it was more like, Hey, I don't know the floor from the ceiling, I think I'm just going to pass out now feet. And when he gave me the "get out of here, I have a job to do eyes," I channeled my dad the best I knew how and said, You know, my dad told me you should never shoot a sitting rabbit. There could be something wrong with it. I decided not to include the part about the wobbles because it didn't seem applicable. My friend just kind of stared at me confused, and as he did, I forced myself a little farther into the room to see the girl passed out on the bed, and I repeated myself, It's not ethical for a hunter to shoot a sitting rabbit. It's unfair because something might be wrong with it. I looked back over at the girl, You just can't shoot a sitting rabbit. And just like that, it was like saying "rabbit" three times awoke her from the dead, and she awoke from her slumber and excused herself from the room. I could tell that my friend was about to kill me, so I decided to excuse myself as well, but in the midst of my own hunt, it meant more for me to stop and make sure that we weren't going around shooting rabbits with wobbles... sure, we were in college and we all know what's on everyone's minds, but there's always a moment when you have to pull back and ask yourself, At what cost am I doing this?

So, I had given up on my own plans for the night, and I was getting my stuff ready to leave when I looked up and saw the rabbit again... my rabbit, that is. I had spent the evening doing shots and taking pictures so that the rabbit could put them on Instagram and talking about things I didn't care about just so that I could impress someone who ultimately, was just another person. I had set myself up to believe that this was the moment, and after all of that, I didn't even get to have a truly meaningful conversation, so as I saw the rabbit go into a room alone, I walked in, and announced I've been following you around all night doing shots and talking about stupid shit, when all I wanted to do was kiss you. I had caught the rabbit off guard. Look at my knees. This is stupid. I'm going to have scabs on my knees. Why? Because I'm not the person that's just going to come up and kiss somebody. I jump in pools after people--shallow pools. And then the rabbit asked, So, why didn't you kiss me? All of a sudden, I began to feel like the rabbit instead, gun pointed at me and everything. 

My dad always used to ask me why I never shot at more rabbits, and in the end, it was because I was scared... scared of shooting him or the dogs or just missing all the way around. I thought that maybe if I didn't shoot at all then it wouldn't be a failure. If you don't shoot at anything, you can't miss. But in the same respect, you can't take anything home. So in one of the bravest moments of my life, I closed the door, and I went in for the kiss. I. Shot. The. Rabbit. And it was the best fifteen second ending to a hunt in the history of all the hunts I've made.

So, in the end, the rabbit ended up deleting me off of Facebook, I went to DC, and the rabbit went to New York. I don't think my dad's intended lesson was to draw metaphorical comparisons between shooting a 4x10 and trying to kiss people, but that's just kind of how life works out I guess. I doubt I'll ever see that rabbit again, and I'm kind of cool with that because that night of hunting can teach a person a lot. There's always a code to go by. You can't just go around chasing anyone you want, especially if they're unconscious, but on the other hand, for hunters like me... you have to be willing to take the shot. You may not hit the target every time, and even if you do, the target may delete you off of Facebook, but you can't be afraid of pulling the trigger. After all, you don't know exactly how many hunts you're going to have in your life.

Questionable Parenting

I've thought about what my children will be like in the future, and I anticipate... well... that they will be little assholes. And I love it. I've imagined that I will train them like little animals to do things and say things that will make them irresistible to the public. I'll pull them out at parties and make them tell jokes to guests before ushering them back to their room to stay until I need them again. At least they'll know that they have a purpose, which I think is important to children. I can't begin to explain how important those first years of life are, especially now that I'm older because the things that my parents told and did to me really helped shape me into the driven, anxious, neurotic person that I am today. Actually, I think my parents did a lot of stuff just for entertainment sake, and now I'm hands down one of the most complex, potentially screwed up people that I know.
That's not to say they didn't love me though--I could be one of those kids who didn't get hugged as a child, and let's be honest, that's the not fun kind of screwed up. I'm not afraid of affectionate touch or base-level commitment. I'm just generally afraid of any kind of sexual interaction, the concept of aging, and a general distrust of doing favors for other people. Other than that, I'm pretty solid on the up and up, which considering what kind of money my friends are going to make for future therapists, I consider that a success. But that doesn't change the fact that my parents lied to me: actually, my parents lied to me a lot... and Wendell and Kathy, if you're reading this, I want you to know I know. I also want you to know that I know you know I know. This isn't for us: this is so everyone else knows.
I'm sure it all started with the best of intentions, as most habits do. When my mamaw died when I was six, I was terrified of death and the prospect of people whom I loved meeting their maker. I also really excelled at English as a child, not so much math. So when my mom's birthday came around, she told me that she was 32. And then the next year, she told me that she was 32 again. She continued to tell me she was 32 until I was eleven years old; eventually, I put the pieces together and come to realize that I had ultimately been lied to over and over. My mom instantly went from being 32 to 38, and though I guess I understood the sentiment behind it, all of a sudden, I had missed out on six years of my mom's life. Kathy had been steadily aging after all, and it was devastating because I wasn't really there for any of it. I was living all "my mom is consistently 32," when in actuality, she was getting older and older just like me.
But most of my mom's lies were to protect me, and in the grand scheme of things, I guess that makes sense. Mothers are supposed to do that, especially with their sons. Fathers, on the other hand, I have no idea what the hell they're supposed to be doing. No lie that my dad ever told me was anything but some kind of weird thing that he had made up in his head to terrify me. From the time I was little, he would pick up animals that he had killed and told me they had come back to life, and if the animal was small enough, he'd pick the entire thing up and come after me with it. And in all fairness, it's not like no one got enjoyment out of it--he loved it. But then there's me, thinking that all of these animals were just chilling out underneath my bed gunning for me in the middle of the night. That's why I started trying to make friends with all the animals, as written about in: Wendell Shot All My Friends.
As scarring as all the lies may have been, I think the problem was that my parents never teamed up to discuss what lies they were telling me. My dad sat me down one day as just a wee little child and explained to me about what puberty was. He told me that eventually, my penis would begin to grow and it would grow all the way down to my ankle; that's the reason that all men wear pants. Being the cunning child I was, I asked him about the men I had seen wearing shorts before, and he told me, "That's when you have to wrap it around your leg, and it hurts. A lot." And his logic had me for a while. I would go and check my penis every day to make sure the process hadn't started. I liked shorts. I didn't want to give them up. But a couple months later, my mom told me that if I ever had sex before I was forty, my penis would actually fall off. Again, I think she did that to scare me/protect me, but what she didn't realize is that she had given me a solution--not a threat. All I had to do was figure out what sex was, do it once, then boom: I could wear shorts all the time.
Eventually, I found out that both of my parents were lying: sex didn't make it fall off and as much as my guy friends like to believe that their... stuff... may be down to their ankle, I haven't met anyone who can prove such a claim. The lies continued for most of my childhood, and I began to be able to distinguish what the truth was, what things my parents would say just to protect me, and what my dad just wanted me to believe so that he could be entertained. But the one thing I never really got the hang of is the idea of lying by omission. One day when I was visiting from college, my mom was walking out the door, and I asked her where she was going. She said, "Oh, just down to the gas station. Be right back." I chased her out the door and said, "I'll go with you! I'll grab my keys." She responded, "Don't worry about it! I'll be right back." It didn't make sense because my mom hates being alone as much as I do, so something wasn't adding up. After a little more banter, I forced myself into the situation, and we were heading down the road.
My mom told me to turn behind this sketchy bar, and I said, "This isn't the gas station." She said, "Yeah, I know. I didn't want to tell you. We're picking up your dad's moonshine." Sweet. Illegal alcohol transactions are my favorite. So I pulled into this gravel driveway leading to this yellow painted cinderblock wall with a very shady looking back porch. A woman came out of the back with cutoff jean shorts and not a single tooth in her head. She said, "Pahp ya trunk," and placed a cardboard box into the back. She came up to my window and said, "Ya daddy's already paid," and smiled a toothless grin that closed her eyes. At this point, I felt like all decorum was out the window, so I turned to my mom and said, "Why the hell did you not tell me we were coming to pick up moonshine? I feel like that's something you tell someone before I pull into Popcorn Sutton's house." She said, "That's why I was trying to get out of there by myself. Some things are just better left unsaid, Justin."
And I guess she's right. The older I've gotten, I've come to terms with the fact that some things are better left unsaid, and sure... my parents did some weird stuff to me and Casey as kids. The lies were absolutely absurd sometimes, but in the end, I think they were trying to protect us from a lot of the potential negatives of life... kind of like when we asked why our neighbors had named their German Shepherds Hydro and Codone and my dad said, "Oh that's a seventies band." I guess that we got away from childhood pretty clean and relatively unharmed, especially in comparison to some of our other peers. And you know, I'm not going to act like I'm not excited about doing the same things to my kids.

A Dusting on New Year's

Well, congratulations, we did it. Unless you did something really bad, really fast, you've made it to 2013. It's a feat that we all kind of considered unlikely in the back of our heads (oh you tricky, Mayans), but in the face of apocalyptic threats and the other unfortunate things we've done up to this year, we've happened upon a year that wasn't supposed to be. For those of us who never really worried about the future, this New Year's doesn't mean that much, but for those of us who did things in the face of a potential world ending, you're responsible for correcting those boo boos and actually planning for a long term future.

New Year's has always had this vague importance in the back of my head because I love the idea of a fresh start. After you graduate, you don't get "new semesters" anymore, so you're left reaching for as many fresh starts as life will allow you. You can make these resolutions that probably will not be fulfilled, but it's cool because at least you took the time to realize there is something that can be improved upon. In my case, I always made big goals that ultimately went completely ignored about 17 hours into New Year's: massive weight loss, the dismissal of red meat, no sexual interaction with anyone at all. That is until recently when I decided to tackle resolutions that were more attainable, which includes but is not limited to: learning the Nicki Minaj part to "Bottoms Up," and watching every episode of Will and Grace.
But my greatest superstition surrounding New Year's is that the way you spend your New Year's Eve is representative of how the following year will play out. In my case, the superstition has always proven to be somewhat true, especially in the last couple of years. Last year, for instance, I spent the better part of my New Year's Eve at a fraternity party watching a freshman down an entire bottle of Jaegermeister, while I casually sipped on a couple of beers. In the final thirty minutes, I rushed home with a friend so that I watch the New Year's ball drop on television with my family. In return, I watched a decent number of people, including myself at times, party senior year away. Then, I entered the chaos of post-grad life, and just in the final moments of 2012, I have settled down enough to catch my breath.
But New Year's Eve has not always been so docile, and it's usually reflected in the year that followed it. My sophomore year of college, I went to a party at my friend's house; it was my first year I had ever spent New Year's away from my parents and brother. I was intoxicated with the idea of running into a cute girl, talking by the beer cooler, and possibly... just maybe... getting that New Year's kiss that I had so desperately longed for ever since I found out that was what people do. My friend's attendees were not people that I was used to though considering that I was apt to get tipsy off the small amount of mouthwash I didn't spit out after brushing my teeth. I was the valedictorian of my graduating class and not well-versed on social decorum, so I immediately felt out of the loop. In between moments of Zak introducing me to his cohorts, I sat on the couch, channeling Dick Clark (may he rest in peace) and trying to hear the musical performances. I remember partially making a breakthrough after accidentally making a joke about Natty Light. When someone pulled it out of the cooler, I casually announced, Hey! That's what my Mamaw drinks all the time. It wasn't until I joined a fraternity that I understood the humor in the joke. Other than that, the night seemed to drag on.
Zak would always introduce me to his friends as "our valedictorian," then go on to tell people how smart I was and how I would go on one day to be a lawyer, which in essence was a complete lie, but whatevs. People seemed to be impressed until a stronger alcohol or cute girl came by, so I embraced it. By eleven o'clock, I had met just about everyone at the party, and I needed to go to the bathroom. I walked in and two people were in there... I know what you're thinking... you thought they were having sex, right?? Nah, just cocaine. The guy turned around from the bathroom counter and asked me if I wanted to do some blow, and without having the educational lyrics of Kesha (or Ke$ha, if you prefer the stylized version), I had no idea what to say. I quickly backed out of the door, falling over a bucket on my way out.
Soon after, I found Zak and told him that I was leaving without trying to explain my run-in with Johnny Depp and Penelope Cruz in the bathroom. I just wanted to escape quickly before the cops came and busted the snort-sesh happening just a couple rooms away. My dear acquaintance/pusher who really seemed to like me about ten minutes before came out of the bathroom, and I told him that I was leaving. Apparently, what you're not supposed to do is act sketchy or deny people who offer you cocaine. When I told him goodbye, he flipped out saying "Dude, you come up in here thinking your f*$&ing better than us?!" Then he lunged at me as if he were going to hit me. Zak immediately dove between us, and all I could think about was that I had somehow stumbled into a scene from The O.C. I had always considered myself the Marissa-type, but I just wasn't jiving with the idea of doing cocaine, or fighting someone who was doing it, for that matter. Eventually I escaped, but the year that followed proved to be as tumultuous as the night that ended the year before.
The night did teach me a lot. One time, my roommate in college did cocaine, and I remember what would happen if I tried to fight him on it, so when he came in rubbing his gums and announced that he had done coke in the back of a club in the Old City of Knoxville, I just kind of high fived him and told him it was cool. I Wikipedia-ed cocaine to make sure he wasn't going to die, then I made him watch Blow the next day as I spread pixie sticks all over our coffee table. But moreover, I learned that sometimes New Year's is best spent in doors.
People asked me what I would do with my first New Year's in DC, and what eventually happened is that I stayed in with my roommate, watched Carson Daly (oh how the times have changed), called my mom at midnight, then forced a neck nuzzle upon Andrew at midnight because I still haven't gotten that New Year's kiss. Eventually, I dominated an entire bottle of champagne, then I went to bed. No, I didn't party it up in DC, and I don't know what that night spells out for the rest of my year. From the sounds of it, it sounds like I'm just going to be chillin with one dude for the year, occasionally making trips to the gas station, and end the year drinking a lot by myself... but then again, the final night of the year has never been a literal translation, so there's still hope. No matter what, it's nice to know that this year contained a little less illicit drugs and a little more of my norm: friendship and wine.

Slapbags and Buttholes: A Guide to Orifices and Consumables

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

Unsanitary.

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

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

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.

A Series of Brief Apologies to College Flings

As I have struggled in the past with legitimate apologies, this is an exercise in admitting and letting go.

So, I apologize that I insisted that we make out even though Craig was asleep in the floor next to us. I'm also sorry that I called you in the middle of a movie because I wanted to make out. I'm sure that it was completely tactless to phone you at a time when getting phoned is strictly prohibited, but I had an agenda, and it just seemed to me that calling you was the most valid option. I'm even more sorry that in trying to save social decorum that I allowed Craig to come in and watch that movie with us. I think we both knew that neither of us was interested in that movie, and considering how fast he fell asleep in the floor, he probably wasn't either. So much wasted time. So tactless.

For you, I'm sorry about Cinco de Mayo. That was really awkward wasn't it? I had my eye on you all night, and you seemed like you wanted nothing to do with me. Then our friends kept matching us up together, even if it was out of malice and boredom, but I thought it was really great! Then you got mad and left, and I explained that I just thought you were super attractive and that I wanted to kiss you. So then we made out for a little bit, and that was cool. I'm sorry that I jumped in that pool after you, mostly because I scraped up my knees pretty badly that night; someone should have told me the pool was three feet deep. I'm sorry you deleted me off Facebook in a record seven hours after the initial making out. I'm sorry that I didn't know you had a boyfriend, and I'm even more sorry that your boyfriend decided to confront me about the whole issue the night before graduation. Talk about walking into that one blind.

And to you, I'm sorry that you somehow misconstrued that pop kiss as the full blown sexual assault that you seemed to tell everyone else about. I suppose I should have seen it coming, considering that ginger mane that went relatively unkempt for most of the time that we hung out. Furthermore, I am more sorry that I had to find out that you not only told my peers, but my professor, which I just recently found out about when I had dinner with him. I apologize that he didn't like you too much, either. And lastly, I apologize for the first time that you have sex because I imagine that it will be a terrorist level red assault on your personal psyche.

For you, I'm really, really sorry that I fell asleep. Seriously, if there's one apology that might garner some kind of sincerity throughout this entire thing, it's yours. I suppose I was just tired or something, but I just passed out there, didn't I? I know that one day, we'll probably laugh about all of this, probably me sooner than you, but at the end of the day, I think we can both agree that it's probably more of a slight against my character than it is yours. If you remember, during season two of Grey's Anatomy, Cristina fell asleep when she was making sweet love to Dr. Preston Burke, and they ended up getting married! ...um, kind of. They were going to get married, then Burke left and that fantastic Ingrid Michaelson song played, and, well... maybe that wasn't the best comparison.

You were a really fantastic individual, and I came to the conclusion early that I was "the guy who won't get no love from you" or better known as a scrub to Destiny's Child, but in the moments that we were... um... intimate... I was always reconfused when you would invite me on dates with you and your boyfriend. But because I was more in love than a passionate Barbara Streisand song, I played along because that was more fun than watching more episodes of Ghost Whisperer on Friday nights. And they weren't all bad; remember that one time we all went to the club and I ended up making out with someone from Newport on the dance floor? That was pretty neat!  I'm sorry that you invited your boyfriend everywhere, and I'm sorry that he was kind of rotund. I'm not hating against rotund people; I myself was quite rotund at one point in my life.

To you, I'm sorry I started crying like that. It was a really emotional time, and I don't want to talk about it. Just know I'm super sorry.

I'm sorry that I never wanted to be in a relationship. Like, seriously. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I spent a year apologizing for that, and I suppose I'm sorry that preempted that super awkward make out sesh with an episode of Glee. It seems like TV plays a really big role in my life, and it was at that point when Glee was really motivational, and it all seemed like the right thing to do. Sometimes I think back on that evening, and I wonder if I misled you with the promise of a simple Glee episode in nothing more, but then there was the chemistry and the seemingly surface level commonalities, and one thing led to another. I apologize for not being a cuddler; I was as surprised as you. Being as emotional as I am, I really thought I would be more into that, but it really just made me sleepy, and I like sleeping by myself. But most of all, I'm sorry that you made me get rid of that Love and Other Drugs poster. I really liked Anne Hathaway and Jake Gyllenhaal.

Even though we were never a fling, I'm really sorry for all those awkward advances on spring break. I'm even more sorry that you thought that bringing a six pack of Smirnoff Ice Grape was an acceptable choice for an alcoholic beverage. I'm even, even more sorry that you demonstrated what you could do with a Smirnoff Ice bottle in front of the entire room. I'm sorry that I didn't stop you from going on a walk with Hayden, and I apologize that it took so long to find you... however, let me explain. There was some guy on the steps that night, and I had to pick him up and carry him to his room because if I didn't, he was going to have the worst neck cramp in the world the next day. I'm also sorry that you were able to identify Ralph Lauren pants so well; what an embarrassing skill to have.

Being a Socialite: The Legend of Faux Hawk and Biggins

If there's one thing I pride myself on, it's party etiquette. I can't help it that I acquired my own unique set of social skills early on, and I'm kind of a special light when it comes to social outings. Most of the time, I like to entertain and only drink so much that I may not be inhibited in my entertaining duties. In the social event world, I'm a bit of a Betty Draper. Not fat, angsty Betty from season 5, but rather season 1 Betty that shot at the neighbor's pigeons... the Betty we were all rooting for. I've hosted a decent number of successful soirees in my day, and in my own mind, I like to think that I'm a bit of a legend. And imagine my surprise when I go to a social event, and I have to deal with those kind of people. I'm not talking about the standard kind of party-killers that most Southern gentlemen like myself fear: the homosexuals, the African Americans, etc. I'm a 21st century kind of host; I expect these kind of roadblocks. No, I'm talking about partygoers without manners... an issue that I've never personally faced. I suppose all of this would make more sense if I got to the root of the matter: the real story.
One evening during my college's January Term, colloquially known as "J-Term," further colloquially named "Play Term," there was an off campus event that I was invited to. I wasn't feeling up to par that night and didn't really want to attend, but I've always had an unbridled fear that if I skip going to a party, eventually I'll stop getting invited. Being a seasoned socialite, I couldn't imagine the thought. If I never got invited to another party, class itself would come to be obsolete in my friend circle. I had an image to maintain. Knowing that my one and only class didn't begin until 1:00 the next day, I decided to attend. My friend, Patrice, and I had a plan. Thirty minutes: in and out. We'd say hello, make sure that people had noted our presence, and then we were out. There was a movie night planned; all the party should have been was a preliminary pit stop on our way to a Disney movie night. However, after a couple cups of hunch punch (a disastrous mixture of grain alcohol and cheap Gatorade), I had lost Patrice. I agreed to drive, so there was no hunch punch in my future. I saw Patrice across the room, held up my wrist and tapped it, and watched Patrice shake her head with a smile on her face and run out the door.
The rest of my night could be likened to an episode of Where in the World is Carmen SanDiego because as small as the apartment was, she was no where to be found. Having seen Patrice on hunch punch before, I knew there was only so much time she had left before her insulin drained dry or she passed out somewhere, but my fear was that if she wasn't in the apartment, the location of her demise could practically be anywhere. Having seen some of my less than formidable male-peers, a passed out girl is essentially the same as a girl saying "sure, I'd love to hook up tonight." I stopped being a socialite and started being a dad. I needed to find Patrice, and it needed to be fast. But, like a true socialite, I can only oppress my social tact for so long.
I began to get more and more stressed out and my fear of not finding her quickly turned into annoyance; the party began to transform to a gathering of freshmen and sophomores who had no idea how to drink properly. And then there was me, without a drop of alcohol in my system. After failing to successfully reach the front door to search outside, I made my way to the back entrance when I was nearly knocked down by the door. The time had come: the return of the perfect socialite. A rather rotund sophomore and her flamboyant freshman counterpart burst from the entrance, smelling like they had already dipped into the finest bottle of Takka their combined nine dollars could buy. They acted as if they were Beyonce and Jay-Z, while appearing more like Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown... from the later years. Regardless, I responded, Hey guys. How are you? Faux hawk looked me up and down, pursed his lips together and laughed in my general direction.
Now, before we continue, let me explain that in socialite mode, no one, and I repeat no one, is allowed to give me the up and down. I'm a social rock star. And in the now obsolete world of class rank, I was a senior and these were underclassmen. Ignore the fact that those standings mean absolutely nothing in the real world, but in the world of college party-going, it carries a lot of weight. Without being conceited or arrogant (or redundant, apparently), running into a senior with a door (no matter how rude) is a privilege. Embark on it.
So, Biggins and Faux Hawk began to walk past me, and I had reached my limit. Without any kind of tact or previous thought, I spun around and yelled "HEY!" They didn't turn around; I had to do it. "Biggins! Faux Hawk!" That got their attention. "Party etiquette, please!" The room turned around and apparently saw the hatred in my eyes. I'm usually not one to remark on someone's weight or absolutely cliched and predictable hairstyle, but I'm also not one to run into people with doors. Kind of like corporal punishment or starving your children for a couple nights, sometimes it's appropriate to make an example out of common, careless rule breakers. I continued out the door, searching for Patrice and ended up coming back inside, making my way to the front door before it came flying open. The man on the other side screamed, "Where the f-ck is she?" and then I vaguely remember falling to the floor.
I can only imagine that the whole event must have been pretty rich for Biggins and Faux Hawk, in the same way that all those 1960s housewives would have loved to have seen Betty get clocked by a flying door with an abrasive, possibly abusive, man on the other end. The rest of the story has been pieced together by second hand accounts. Apparently, even on the ground, I had some pretty hilarious commentary, and I soon after found Patrice. I vaguely remember her singing "I Love You Like a Love Song" through tears on the way home. As for the rest of the night, I have no recollection as to what happened. I ended my night with a concussion and a bruised reputation as the premier socialite.
Since the event, I easily regained my title as esteemed party-goer, with more classy interactions than I can count. I've even had interaction with both Faux Hawk and Biggins; sadly, I can't say that either have improved. Actually, the interactions ended more disastrously than the original one. What I'm trying to say is that being a socialite is hard. If you've ever watched Gossip Girl and thought that it was overwrought and way too dramatic, it's not. Most people don't understand the trials and tribulations that people like Serena, Betty Draper, and myself go through. People expect us to be perfect, and in most situations, we are. But you can't help it when you get slammed to the ground by a stray door, and you can't help that every once in a while, you have a Biggins or Faux Hawk show up at an otherwise successful gathering.

Nothing Like a Little Hard Work and Defecation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Diamond's Rapise: F--- this.

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

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

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

Justin: Diamond, what's your address?

Diamond: I don't know.

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

Justin: Diamond, did you poop on yourself?

Diamond: I don't know.

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

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

Private School Student at a State School Party

In my increasingly old age, sometimes I don't find myself as fun as I used to be. And by fun, I mean reckless and willing to consume immense amounts of alcohol. So, I guess by fun, I kind of mean stupid.

Correction: In my increasingly old age, sometimes I don't find myself as stupid as I used to be.

Tonight, I went to a wedding, had a couple glasses of wine, then I came home. However, every once in a while, a little friend sneaks up on me. I like to call that friend, tequila. Most of the time, that tequila comes in the form of margaritas. On Cinco de Mayo, or the English translation: Day of Thanks for Tequila, I decided that I needed give my dues to Montezuma and all of the other Mexican gods. Considering that the apocalypse is coming up in just six months (mark your calendars!), it is important that we make what we have left of 2012 the best year that we can.

Even with my dedication to the drink that evening, there's always a special piece of me that remains in control. I don't like being that girl at the party; no one enjoys the one girl that takes shots of Malibu because "it's, like, so tasty" and then demands her keys to go home at the end of the night. Just drink your Mike's Hard and stay where you are. But, I digress. As I was finishing up my second margarita at El Jimador, or "The Jimmy" as Maryville College students have come to know it, I was contemplating how I wanted to ring out the end of the Mexican New Year.

Upon unconscious advising from the tequila and very little convincing from my friends, it only seemed logical to visit a small subset of apartments that contained mostly UT students. As most Tennessee coeds know, UT is a "dry campus." At one point in the Old Testament, I'm pretty sure there was something said about not mixing your fibers. Think of that when you put on your polycotton blend tee shirt tomorrow. Sometimes, rules just end up getting broken. At first the party was just a small group of college friends, but eventually, someone decided that the night was not interesting enough. We relocated to the adjacent apartment. We needed new friends.

Upon inviting ourselves into what was, by no surprise, a toga party, I immediately felt out of place; one reason was because I didn't know any of these people, but the main reason was because I know as an experienced soiree planner myself, I would never mix cultures by having a toga party on Cinco de Mayo. Why not just dress up as witches on Christmas? It makes no sense. That could have been why I instantly felt so abrasive to everyone at the gathering, but I wouldn't let it stop me. Cinco de Mayo is, after all, the holiday of my people. I would not let some party planning faux pas stand in the way of that.

I scanned the room looking for someone other than my own to talk to. My friends already know that when I "scan a room," that it's never with the same intention as other guys. To reference the new Rihanna song ft. Chris Brown, I am not looking for the "cake, cake, cake, cake, cake, cake." That's not my M.O. I don't like predatory actions, and that's a big reason that I usually do not attend these kind of events with other gentlemen. As I searched the room, I sifted through a sea of Bacardi Breezers and girls holding other assorted wine coolers. I wanted a different kind of conversation that didn't involve a slang term for the word vagina or a recap of this week's episode of Gossip Girl. I saw her, sitting there, over on the couch. Like Meryl Streep in The Devil Wear's Prada, I said something similar to "Go ahead. Take a chance. Sit with the smart, weird girl." Soon, I would find out that this girl had a voice similar to all of the other sorority girls in the room. However, she had me at "English major."

In a weird turn of events, she said that her favorite area of literature was Early American lit, specifically the sermons. This also happens to be the area of literature that most English majors detest... most of them, except for me. In the midst of this state school event, I had found the bright light sitting in the corner of the room. I immediately came alive with knowledge announcing at an extremely inappropriate volume, "I LOVE SINNERS IN THE HANDS OF AN ANGRY GOD!!" I was embarrassing, but not nearly as embarrassing as her response. She looked at me and announce, "OMG. I LOVE WINTHROP!"

I was done. I will explain why in a bulleted list.

• She pronounced Winthrop's name as WHEN-THRAHP. It's WHEN-THRUP.
• She casually used the letters OMG in conversation, like that's an okay thing.
• John Winthrop did not write Sinners in the Hands of An Angry God. Jonathan Edwards did. Any self-respecting English major knows that.

I couldn't control my face, a recurring problem in my life. I pursed my lips together in absolute distain. This is what I got for taking a chance. She began talking about something else, but my ears were ringing with private school pretension. How could she not know? How could I, a consistently good judge of people and intelligence, have made such a fatal error? I shook my head quickly to bring myself to and interrupted her mid-sentence. "Brittany, it's been so good talking to you, but I have to go find my friends." I even did the non-invasive knee touch to let her know that I was sympathetic. As I began to walk away, she announced, "Um, it's Brandi." I quickly turned around and retorted with a closed-eye-smile, "Whatever."

After rethinking the night, over and over, I guess most of all I feel ashamed. I just expected too much (a common retort that I hear at the end of most of my relationships). I guess I only expected out of her what I would have expected out of myself... a correct answer. I'm sorry, Jonathan Edwards. I'm so sorry for the people of the world who claim to know you but live in some kind of sham covered up by the subpar writings of one, John Winthrop. I'm sorry other partygoers for being the elitist English major that my private school education has bred me to be. And most of all, I'm sorry Brittany for coming off so abrasively at what should have been the best Cinco de Mayo toga party of your undergraduate career.

Brandi. Damn it. Did it again.