Dear Justin: The Worst Dating Advice Column Ever

This morning as I was coming into work, I noticed someone as I was walking inside--all the hormones starting raging, and like a chimpanzee, I immediately pushed my chest out, raised my head a little bit, and fixed my posture. It was like an unconscious thing, but at the moment, everything seemed so promising and exciting that I wanted to put my best foot forward. DC is full of people that are attractive, intelligent, and well-put together, so I tend to spend a lot of time acting like a metrosexual chimpanzee. Dating is complicated. If you don't find the love of your life in college, you might as well buy a cat, sharpen up on your needlepoint, and buckle down for all the Roseanne marathons your heart can handle. But there are those of us who persist on. In a metro area of nearly 6 million people, I believe that two self-centered, entitled, policy-driven individuals can still find love because, well... Bill and Hillary.
So in pursuit of my own Billary, I held the elevator door this morning for my potential mate outside, and when I say that I held the elevator, I mean I held it for like fifteen seconds practically growling at anyone else who dared to enter the elevator. Eventually, we were both in the elevator: I had done it. So, in response, I got, "Thanks for holding the door for me. You didn't have to do that (audible smile)." And then like a trashy Seth McFarlane character, I said, "Heh, you're welcome." And then I got off the elevator. I had forgotten one major part of flirting and human attraction: proper communication... actually, any communication at all. A couple of weeks ago, I asked people to send me their questions on dating, and in response, I got really vague questions in addition to really, really specific situations. I feel like I've made enough dating errors at this point that I could give all kinds of neat advice, so here goes it.

Justin, where do you meet people?
Well, I think it depends on who you are. Find the place you feel most comfortable. For some people, that's college, and if you've missed your boat, then I'm sorry about the rest of your life. For others, it's church. For some, it's bathhouses; it's really up to you. I learned a long time ago that I'm not going to meet people in bars because I'm just not a bar person. I don't have pick up lines. I do best in smaller situations, and if it's a stranger, I'm more likely to drop my scalding hot coffee on someone and talk my way into a date at a Starbucks than I would be trying to buy someone a drink at a bar.

Justin, how do you feel about online dating?
Listen, Meg Ryan, things have gotten a whole lot more complicated since You've Got Mail. I think it speaks a lot to our generation because we've stopped knowing how to communicate with people face to face. Online dating allows you to practically stalk people before meeting them, and in short, you are really drying the well of things to talk about before you meet them. I know it works for some people, and that's great. I online date sometimes, and it's hilarious. One person I talked to asked to come over, and when I said no, threatened to kill themselves, so that's cool. If you're in a bigger place, don't take the online thing too seriously because no one else really is, and be aware of where you're doing your online dating. If you're on something you have to pay for, people are probably really gunning to seal the deal. You don't buy a shirt if you don't intend on wearing it. If you're on something free like OKCupid, you probably care enough, as long as it doesn't cost you. If you're on an app like Tinder, well... you're only looking at pictures then clicking a heart or an X. I know it sounds crazy, but if it's shallow enough to only give you 2 options following looking at someone's picture, the relationship will probably reflect the outlet.

Justin, if a guys says he is paying for your date in advance, and then you offer to pay to be nice while you're actually out and he agrees, does that make him a douchebag?
Short answer: No.
Long answer: I've always had a really bad habit of offering to do things that I didn't want to in hopes of trying to be nice, and then people actually wanted me to do it. I would complain and complain, but in reality, I asked if I could, unprompted. I think something you have to learn, in all aspects of life, is that you should not offer to do something for someone unless you really want to do it. I've learned that the hard way with additional projects at work, picking people up from the airport, and offering sexual favors. Also, in terms of the whole "guy pays" thing, that gets complicated in my world. I'm a full blown feminist who believes that people are just people, so there's no obligation here. Equality for all, so... women are just as capable of paying as guys are. Towanda, ya know?

Justin, I think a guy likes me, but I can't figure it out. I've tried talking to his friends to see where he stands, but I'm still not sure.
Well, stop that, because that's just annoying. You're not trying to find an answer to your question, you're looking for a green light. If you want an answer, ask him. Pulling others into situations like this never, ever helps.

Justin, if she says she likes me, but she wants to take it slow, how slow should I take it?
Well, this is a two part question, really. According to Robin Thicke, everybody hates these blurred lines, so in essence the answer is: as slow as she says to take it. I just recently watched an episode of Parenthood (aka, the most underrated show on television), and this 17 year old guy was all, "Let's make sex!" and the girl was like, "I thought this was a picnic!?" and then they didn't have sex, and she broke up with him. I stood up and high-fived that imaginary 15 year old girl in my room and went on about my day. If you don't let time run its course, you risk a very real possibility of being a douchebag. On the other side of that, if you're someone who likes to keep a Dale Earnhardt pace in a Jeff Gordon kind of world (you're so very welcome for the heavily-biased NASCAR reference), then maybe you should reevaluate the person you're with. Just like you shouldn't expect anything too fast out of her, she should understand if you're looking for a faster pace. Neither way is the wrong way--just two equally effective ways that don't work together.

How fast is too fast to get married?
Always. Always is too fast to get married.

Justin, I met the perfect guy at a bar. He's from England and will be traveling around the US for the next three weeks. We flirt via text every day, but he's not stopping in DC again before heading back home. Should we keep in touch?
Anecdote: My roommate from college came to visit me this year. He's from Scotland. We went out to the bar, and I had five drinks, and I didn't have to pay for any of them because they were his surplus from all the drinks girls were buying him. It was a magnificent evening. Unless you're headed over to visit the royal baby, Bridget Jones, I would give him an additional three weeks and see if he contacts you... AMIRITE?

Justin, how should I treat a girl's friends that I've never met before?
Nicely.

Justin, I went to my boyfriend's (now ex-boyfriend's) house for the first time. He showed me a "poker room" with girl's bras everywhere and porn on the wall. What would you have done in the situation?
First and foremost, I would have set a reminder in my phone to put in a prayer request for him because gambling, pornography, and fornication are three of the devil's strongest tools in luring sinners to Hell. Secondly, I would have giggled because I didn't know people like that actually existed in real life. Third, I would have broken up with him, which seems to be a non-issue at this point. Lastly, I would have taken the bras back upstairs to his mom; I'm assuming that they probably belonged to her because I stand by the fact that someone who would commingle bras and porn for home decor probably did not come upon the bras in an organic way.

Justin, I just broke up with someone, but some of my stuff is still over at their place... what should I do?
A simple cost benefit analysis will answer this question pretty easily. If it were me, I would figure out in a concrete way how much I don't want to be around this person. If the items in question are important enough, you'll deal with it, no matter the issue. All it takes is going over to that place and asking for your business back. If you don't get an answer, then... that's really weird and that person has some growing up to do. In extreme cases, like if the stuff I left over there was the second or seventh seasons of Grey's Anatomy, I would bust the door down, go in spinning around with a brick in my hand to take out whomever I needed to, get my DVDs, and leave. But, I'm also a very passionate person.

Looking to stay single for a while? Send your dating and life questions to Justin at justinkirkland4@gmail.com!

You're a Libra, Aren't Ya, Darlin?

As an Aries, I know that the common characteristics of my astrological sign are some of the boldest and most extroverted of any of the other signs. My horoscopes are always black or white. At my last internship, we would sit and read them to each other, and Aries would always have something like, Today is the day you will meet the love of your life. Everyone will love you, and you will somehow win an Emmy. Go, Aries. or Today you will butt heads with people--you will tell them how worthless they are and alienate everyone in the process. Apparently, when it comes to an Aries, things are pretty cut and dry. But that's assuming that you believe in the powers of astrology. My roommate went on a date with a girl who believed in earth signs and astrology more than any religion in the world, so it obviously means something to at least a few people, and even if you don't believe per se, it always leaves a little bit of something in the back of your head: the astrology, the Tarot cards, the palm readings... the results can be pretty tempting.
And though I don't particularly believe in astrology, I also can't help but to agree with the characteristics that are associated with my sign: eager, impulsive, enthusiastic, optimistic, and "doesn't like to be bored." So that's why when I started feeling lonely and bored at a party last night, I knew that I had to use my Aries-ness to turn the situation around in my favor. Better yet, I knew that I had to you astrology to bring the attention back to where it belonged: with Aries. But before we talk about last night...
I'm no stranger in the mysticism circuit. My parents told me to stay away from Ouija boards, and the like. My dad told me to never deal with Tarot cards or palm reading or any of it, and their cautious fear of fortune-telling only made me think of it as a bit of a hoax. My brother Casey and I would go around the house mimicking Miss Cleo, announcing You're a Libra, aren't ya, darlin?! at every chance we got, and when she was brought up on charges of fraud and deceptive advertising, Casey and I were a little sad. Later on, I got my "relationship Tarot card reading" with a friend, so it was only a matter of time before I had to take the cards into my own hands.
While sitting in my freshman dorm, I was waiting on all my friends to come back from their Friday night plans. My night had ended especially early, so all I had was my scarf and a bunch of leftover paper from someone's abandoned art project in the lobby. So with nothing else to do, I borrowed a marker and scissors from a resident and I took the stars into my own hands. In a matter of minutes, I had transformed: I was Swami Justin. I wrapped my scarf around my head and arranged the cards on a small table in the lobby. As people began to walk in, I'd startle them with my forced Mediterranean accent, Oh darlin, you want your cards read, don't ya? It may have been in boredom or possibly just that inkling of curiosity we talked about earlier, but very few people could resist getting their cards read by the Swami. For my first attempt at channeling the future, I kept it pretty basic, with most cards being more of a humor piece than an actual Tarot card symbol. People loved it, and after three hours of disparaging cards referencing people that lived in our building, I hung up my turban and Mediterranean accent and called it a day. Even with my faux cards and ridiculous readings, I knew that my power with the unknown... well, it was too strong.
The swami within had been hibernating for almost five years, and then last night, he reared his ugly, mystical head. My roommates and I decided to go to our friend's house for a birthday party. I had trepidations about going before the weekend even came. I can usually tell when I will be annoyed with a situation before it even happens--we'll just include it in my psychic powers. And it wasn't long into the party that exactly that happened. After a couple rounds of shots and two different renditions of Rick Springfield's Jessie's Girl, everyone started to couple off. Being the self-indulgent person I am, by the time I realized that most everyone was missing, my pickings were slim. I eventually settled on someone who had adamantly protested, and failed, for everyone to go to "da club." After talking for a bit, mostly about her, I said I'd love to hang out with her sometime, and then she got really nervous and apologized a lot. Then as we walked downstairs, we had passed everyone who had been missing, and she told them about how awkward it felt for me to ask her out: a common obstacle that I imagine must be incredibly taxing for her.
I had lost control. The party was quickly spinning out of my social hands. Both of my roommates had disappeared into the night with their lady-friends, and that just left me, a pack of cigarettes, the girl who had become blatantly forlorn at the concept of us hanging out in the daylight, and a feeling... a feeling to change, or rather predict, the future.  I just had to wait. I knew that if I could bide my time, someone would come back downstairs, parched from all the necking and alcohol intake; they would need water, and I would pounce. So when someone walked onto the back porch with his lady friend, I knew I had found my target. Somehow, the conversation had turned to reading palms, and lady friend said, I've always wanted to get my palm read. I felt the Swami begin to take over, but I couldn't stop him. He announced, I can read palms.
After a couple minutes of reasoning as to why I read palms, including a story about how my dad's untimely death was predicted by a palm reader (for the record, I'm pretty sure my dad was sitting at home last night having a beer. I called him today, you know, to keep karma in check), I had finally convinced her that my powers were as real as any other psychic in the world. She asked me to read her palm, so I snatched her hand and held it in my own, softly caressing her palm while I tried to read her "energy." She watched attentively as I traced the wrinkles in her hand, only able to remember that the line from the base of the thumb to the pointer finger is called the "life line." I began to tell her about her life, coming up with the greatest generalizations that I could. I told her that she would have two marriages, one short, the other long, which was a line directly pulled from the book Eat, Pray, Love. Thanks, Ketut. Then, it happened. I traced her life line up and told her that it begins to fade toward the end, and the end of her life would be gradual, not sudden. Death obviously made Lady Friend nervous, and she said, Will I get sick? I responded, I don't know. And she followed with, Am I going to get Alzheimer's? And by this time, I was dizzy from all the power... I couldn't comprehend how this girl was hanging on my every word, so I simply responded, Yes. She jerked her hand away and started to become visibly upset... not with me, but with the damning future that her palm had given her. She looked at her hand as if it had just slapped her in the face. Damn the future! Damn that hand.
As she became more upset, I worried that the jig was up. Someone was going to do me in, I just knew it. Enough people had shown up at this point that someone was going to do me in, so I just got quiet and waited for my inevitable fall. When people asked her what was wrong, she said, He figured it out! He read my palm, and now I'm going to have Alzheimers! I closed my eyes, waiting on someone to put me in my place when a girl walked up and said, I can't believe you can do it! Read my palm! And then I began going to from hand to hand, tracing lines and making up names like, "The Relationship Line," and "The Future Line." I had done it--goal achieved. I may have not gotten my mouth on anyone else's last night, but before the night was over, almost everyone was waiting for the next reading from my lips. The light was mine. My roommate walked up and said, If you can read palms, read mine. I could see the look in his eye, twinkling with a maliciousness that the other party guests didn't have. So I jerked his hand into mine, quickly ran my finger across his palm and said, Looks like you're going to die. Probably at 60. Sorry. Nothing could bring me down--I was simply a psychic, floating among the constellations at that point.
To finish off my astrological high, I texted as many friends from home as I could remember to let them know that the Swami had been resurrected with greater force than ever before... but just as fast as he appeared, he went into hiding again. I don't know when he will appear again, or where... maybe in the tea leaves, or through some kind of new medium, hopefully having to do with food. I can't say exactly where the power comes from, but I know that it's strong, and most of all, it brings the room's attention back to me. But honestly, it didn't take a psychic to see that that's what the future held.

One Year Out

Last night, I went on a date that I, honestly, had invested way too much in before it even happened. We had been talking via text for about three days, and--if I can be candid--I thought this was going to be one that I took home to the parents. Essentially, I was Ginnifer Goodwin in He's Just Not That Into You, and it played out exactly how the movie title reads: not. that. into. you. After the date, we had a brief discussion about how I wasn't relationship material, and then I came home and drank a bottle of wine... because that's how you handle rejection. I had never done this on a date before... putting that much pressure on a first meeting. I blame my recent trip home, where I met all my friends from home who are either married, engaged, or about to be engaged: going to Tennessee is essentially the equivalent of visiting a group of 16 year old traditional Indian girls... everyone is getting married off. But, as I was consuming my entire bottle of 3.99 wine on a Saturday night, I thought to myself, What is your life? Look at your decisions. And then I was hungover for work, and that's never cool.

It's been 14 months since I graduated undergrad, 13 months since I started this blog, 11 months since I moved to Washington D.C., and 12 minutes since I last ate an entire sleeve of Oreos. Not to be cliche, but time goes by incredibly fast. I'm not saying that I feel like the past year has aged me immensely, but I will say that I saw a guy in front of me at 7-11 the other day with a pint of Ben and Jerry's "Strawberry Shortcake" and a Coke Zero and thought to myself, "Damn. That looks like a good night. I wonder if he'd want to be friends." The past year has been exhausting, and I had a ton of people tell me that it would be the hardest year of my life that I've faced thus far, and it was.
But there's a caveat to that--it absolutely was the most trying 365 days I've faced in my life, and in the same breath, it was also the most amazing days that I've ever seen. I suppose in comparison to a lot of people I went to school with, the journey that I've taken has been a little bit different. I decided to move to a new place with new people, and with all of that being said--it hasn't gone half bad. On the outside, it looks pretty good, and by most standards, I'm doing okay for a 23 year old: good job, decent friends, solid school record... but below the surface, there's all these questions and issues that you can't know about--the things that we just don't talk about.
But this is not a place where we keep secrets: we established that a year ago. This is a place I come to share with the rest of the world all the things that make us nervous and scared and a little embarrassed. In public relations, we're told about the value of the infographic: a way of conveying data to people that makes them more receptive to actually taking it in. So after I found out that I would be alone at home tonight because my roommates had actual dates, I started an infographic at work. Even I need a picture to describe what's going on in my life. So I jumped in and reflected on 2013, because tackling the entire past year was just too hard for my heart to handle. This is what I found.

And what we can learn from this graph, other than the fact that I turn to pizza when I'm lonely, and that I am a raging chain smoker/wino, is that we shouldn't be ashamed of the things that make us a little less than perfect. The dates and the pizza and the singing and the wine: well, it makes us human. I once thought that I knew exactly what my life would look like once I was at this age, and it doesn't look like that at all. Life is a little bit of a complexity: it can be a tragedy or a comedy, all depending on the way that you look at it. A year ago, if you asked me how I would feel about living with three sports buffs, remaining single, and ordering approximately two Dominos pizzas a week... I probably would have been pretty sad about it. But when you put it in perspective, it's a pretty funny life--mostly because it's the last thing I would have planned.

I think we all try and prepare for things so that we can do our best at outsmarting life. We follow an unspoken syllabus because we think that's what will make us happy. I see it done every day: by people back home, by people in DC, by people everywhere really. But it's pointless because your life is yours, and if you want to go and get a pint of Ben and Jerry's with a Diet Coke... well then damn it, you should. And it shouldn't matter that it makes you feel old or lame or socially awkward because that's your life, and honestly... no one else has any more idea of what's going on than you do. So, for 

you seven year olds that read my blog, my advice is to plan your future very loosely. Know where you're going, but don't Google Maps the directions or anything... because inevitably, you're going to miss a turn or take the exit two before the one you were supposed to take. And for everyone else, myself included, we know the big secret to life: there's absolutely no controlling it, and even more than that, there's absolutely no stopping it. Because very similarly to my car, when you have it figured it out and fixed, something else is inevitably going to break down. And that's okay because we're a resilient species. We do what it takes to make things work.

So, since I've started this blog tonight, I'm about four beers deep, a couple cigarettes in, and about to pee on myself because I haven't taken a bathroom break. It's been almost a month since I submitted my last entry, and even though it's almost 3:00am, and I'm about to pee on myself--there's a satisfaction that comes with writing another post. It's an idea that's sat in my head for weeks, and originally, I anticipated that it would be filled with wisdom and insight, when in reality--it was more of a display of the embarrassing things I do on a daily and/or monthly basis. But that's the point: no one is wise. This world isn't particularly about being smart--it's partially about luck and partially about determination. You have to be at the right place at the right time, but most of all, you have to be determined enough to keep going so that you eventually hit that string of luck. And in the mean time, you can always run down to 7-11 for a bottle of wine.

An Open Letter to Santa Claus

Hello Santa,

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

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

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

Santa: 0, Justin: 1

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

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

Santa: 0, Justin: 2

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

Santa: 1, Justin: 2

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

Santa: 1, Justin: 3

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

Final Score: Santa: 1, Justin: 4

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

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

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

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

Kissing is a Stranger's Game

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

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

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

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.

What a Perfectly Unsatisfying Moment

As I'm on my trek back home, sitting on the MegaBus once again, I keep listening to an alternating duo between "Greyhound Bound for Nowhere" and "California King Bed" because you have the whole I'm on a bus and I'm traveling between here and there and I'm so interesting thing going on, and surely, there's some kind of hidden melodramatic moment in all of that. But, like most of the moments in my life that I purposefully try to make into a big deal, it's not. There's this woman in front of me with an airbrushed shirt that says Deonna in stereotypical airbrush cursive handwriting, and then in a surprise turn of events, Chris Metts is sitting behind me, and right when I get into super melodramatic mode, I have to re-convince my dad that the Indian woman that keeps glancing back at us is A) not going to blow up the bus, B) probably wearing a red jewel because she's Hindu, and that they have a pretty okay record when it comes to not blowing up buses, C) probably confused because she's never seen a mustache that size before. By the time I get settled back in to have my melodramatic moment, the time is gone or I'm just too tired to try again. You can imagine my frustration.
I shouldn't be surprised because I had to come to terms a long time ago that the world isn't nearly as eventful and emotional as I would like it to be, and when you try to make these moments happen yourself, it's kind of more of a wreck than it would have been before. Regardless, I make it a point to at least try. And in a way, what are we without those moments? Sure, none of them have ever worked out, but in a way, that's the beauty of it... trying to live up to what we believe is perfect in our mind. That's what happened this past Valentine's Day... and on spring break... and with my first girlfriend... maybe this happens too often.
In my first relationship, we didn't have nearly enough in common to be in a relationship; actually, there wasn't much holding us together beside the fact that we both loved to make out. So that's what we did. We made out and we argued, and that was that. So as part of our ritual, we were making out on the trampoline one day, as sixteen year olds do, and we started getting into an argument. I can't remember what it was about, but it was something absolutely pointless, I'm sure. She stormed off the trampoline, and I followed behind, trying to make the situation better when it hit me. This could be a moment. She started up the steps of my back porch that my dad had built. Apparently, when we built the porch, he didn't choose treated lumber. The difference between treated and untreated lumber is that if it's treated, it protects the integrity of the wood. The boards were beginning to warp after time, so some boards stuck up farther than the rest. My plan was to kiss her. Just kiss her mid-sentence. It would be perfect, so as I went in for the kiss right in the middle of her saying something, my foot caught a board. I knew it was all out of my hands, as my body starting falling forward. My headed collided with her chin, and if I remember correctly, that was one of just a very few times I ever heard her cuss. Moment gone. It seemed like the right idea at the time because I had seen it in movies and read about it in romance novels, but there was something terribly difficult when it came to executing it.
But it was nothing in comparison to the disaster that was this past Valentine's Day. I had never been involved with someone on Valentine's Day, and regardless of who you are, you want to be involved with someone on Valentine's Day. The closest I had previously gotten to something romantic on Valentine's Day was splitting a heart shaped pizza from Domino's with Kasi our freshman year. At the end of the evening, we watched Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood, drank Bloody Mary's in my room, and smelled like garlic. So even in the ruins of a doomed relationship, I was determined. The night before, we had stood on the steps of the library and decided that things were falling apart. We were nearly broken up, when we were interrupted by practically the sixth or seventh person walking up to say hello when I was jarred with the obvious: Valentine's Day is tomorrow. Don't screw this opportunity up. There's a moment to be had here. So I prolonged the break up, promising that we would continue to try, and at the time, it seemed totally feasible.

There's the actual dinner in discussion, in all its trendy
Instagram glory.

The next day, I skipped all my classes and went to the grocery store to buy mushrooms and green beans and chicken. I would make the perfect Valentine's Day dinner, and it would be enough to turn everything around. If I believe one thing about this world, it's that food has the ability to make everything better. That's why we bring casseroles to funerals. As I was making the dinner, shuffling between the filling for the stuffed mushrooms and the breading for the chicken, my friend Bridget asked me, Why are you doing this? And it was obvious: because Valentine's Day is supposed to be special. And it wasn't until after dinner that I heard I'm not a big fan of chicken, and I hate mushrooms that it hit me. I had wasted a bunch of time trying to make a perfect moment when I could have just let some kind of perfect moment come to me. Soon after, I found myself sitting in my room, toying back and forth between throwing a half eaten chicken breast and two stuffed mushrooms away. My theory was: I mean, I've kissed this person, so there's really no shame in... yeah. I ate it. But my second theory, and arguably more important, theory was: if a moment is supposed to be perfect, maybe you shouldn't have to work so hard for it. Working hard is for goals. Working hard is watching Silent Hill when you absolutely know that you hate video games, and thus, will most likely hate the movie equally as much. Working hard is for the long-term, whether or not it will eventually work in the end... not for simple moments.
And after I finished the abandoned chicken breast and mushrooms and then starting eating mashed potatoes straight from the pot, I started thinking about Bridget. Bridget, like me, seems to try way too hard to make things work. Also like me, Bridget is great at giving advice but terrible at taking it herself. But that night, as I spooned the bottom of the pot for what I'm sure finished off at least a pound of mashed potatoes in my stomach, her words hit me again: Why are you doing this? And it applied to a lot of things. Why was I trying to make this train wreck work? Why did I even make this dinner? Why are you a 22 year old man sitting in his kitchen eating mashed potatoes out of a pot originally intended for two? And most importantly... how in the hell did you learn to make mashed potatoes taste so delicious?
And at the end of the night, I sat at my desk and stared at the window overlooking Maryville for a long time and decided that there's not really time to try and create these perfect moments (unless you're on a nine hour bus ride, then you can do whatever the hell you want) because if they're supposed to be perfect, wouldn't it make sense that they would be perfectly random? Also, understanding that is half the battle... knowing that to an extent, we're totally not in control of our lives, or at least the things that involve us and other people. That's why going and seeing The Vow with Bridget and announcing that Whitney Houston had died to the Walgreens cashier was more of a romantic date than the well thought out dinner on Valentine's Day. And if you can't go through the streets, candidly informing people of the death of pop's arguably most talented voice with your significant other, then what kind of moments do you really have to live for?

An Open Letter To The Four Girls I Kissed Before I Became a Full-Fledged Sinner

I have always believed that the lips are the entry to the fiery gates of Hell, at least in terms of kissing. It's the gateway organ, you know. People start out talking like it's not a big deal; eventually, that leads to innocent pecks on the cheek or the mouth. The next thing you know, lips are all over the place and then there's no praying that can save you from there. I remember a time when I could count the number of people I'd kissed on one hand. Those were simpler days... days when I never considered even asking people what their sexual background was because sexual backgrounds didn't matter; we didn't have one. Now there's all these questions and awkward moments that we have to have with one another. That's why I'm nearly celibate, not that it has anything to do with choice.
There's that one point in all of our lives (well, most) that we spin out of control. We find out that we can kiss as many people as we like. We want to know how other people kiss and if everyone has an experience when someone licked their face (anyone, anyone?). Okay, maybe that was just a me thing. Anyway, before that moment in my life, there were only four girls that I had kissed: all very different, all very interesting in her own right. This is a letter to you.

To Whom It May Concern:

We don't like to think we're bad kissers, but out of the four of you, only one of you could actually kiss. I'm here to say thank you for starting me out at the lower end of the scale and to apologize for having to realize the quality of your kissing skills through such heinous, sinful ways. We'll start off with the beginning. There's no place like the Foothills Carmike 12 parking lot to experience your first kiss. At this point, I can't remember who kissed whom, but I do remember the really intense and short make out sesh we had in your car following that kiss. I remember that it was completely daylight, and I remember watching the old people that walked passed by the car starting at us. Most of all, I remember that Patty Loveless' "How Can I Help You To Say Goodbye" was playing on the radio; the only song about leaving and death that I would feel comfortable making out to again. For the record, you were the best kisser out of the bunch; I know you'd be proud of that. Thanks for keeping it somewhat PG rated, though I can't remember the last time that I kissed someone when the sun was up.

As for the second, I'm fairly confident that you licked my face once, and I really wasn't as into that as I originally said. Actually, I wasn't really into that at all. I'm sure that by now, someone has addressed this issue. You've found the Lord, and I've found... other things, but I felt like it was important to let you know that kind of behavior is completely unacceptable in the Kirkland household. Though you are a fantastic person, your presentation was sloppy (though not the sloppiest), your execution was all over the place, and you reminded me of Ricky Bobby because you had absolutely no idea what to do with your hands. Though your intentions were sincere, your kissing made me uncomfortable and longing for a shower.

To the third, there was absolutely nothing wrong with your kissing, mostly because in the four months that we dated, I can't actually remember a time that you kissed me back. Actually, the entire thing was a little rapey and made me feel really uncomfortable about our relationship. My parents absolutely loved you, but if I remember correctly, my parents never kissed you. I would always ask you if things were okay, if you were all right and you would always silently nod. I found myself feeling like somewhat of a  mouth prostitute that you had paid for and a face rapist. I hope that things have gotten more eventful for you or that you have found the appropriate nunnery.

Lastly, I would like to address the fourth. The only way I know how to describe it is in the context of the fourth definition of "bucknasty" on Urban Dictionary. Your definition of kissing would be the equivalent of how I imagine girl two would act if she were on bath salts. There was no precision. There was no focus, and I said a small prayer of thanks when you came within two inches of my mouth. I don't believe in putting noses in mouths, and that's why I never reciprocated that really awkward gesture that you found to be appropriate. I've always found the smell of the inside of someone's mouth to be atrocious and knowing that I voluntarily let you eat my nose is something I will never be able to forgive myself for. I'm glad that you're getting married, and I'm glad that I've learned boundaries.

Cordially,
Justin