Wooly Bully

I watched a documentary called Bully a little over a week ago--if you're ever looking for a solid reason not to have kids, you should watch it. Essentially what it boils down to is that kids are freaking terrible little creatures. And apparently, they're getting smarter, or adults are getting dumber, or something. Either way, it's getting completely out of control. Apparently, kids take to Twitter and Facebook now, and hell, I'm assuming they probably use Snapchat to send little messages like, "Go kill yourself," and then afterward, it just kind of goes away. And what was worst about it is that these parents have no idea what to do. I'm not saying there's a clear cut answer--God knows that having children is one area that I am not an expert in.
But the difference between these kids' experiences and mine is that their parents seemed lost as to how to fix it. And I guess there's not really a sure fire way that works when it comes to your kids and what happens to them at school--I'm sure if there were, a lot of girls I went to high school with wouldn't have ended up so pregnant by senior year. But my dad had a way of dealing with things--whether I liked it or not.
But I didn't always go home and report my bullying because that would have been all that I talked about, and I really liked to talk, so I had to ration out my topics. Most of the time I only reported general, blatant hate crimes--kind of like when Lindsay used to shake me in first grade or when Andrew tried to give me a haircut by cornering me with scissors. Ironically, the scissors were never going toward my hair, but rather my cheekbones... I like to think it was less about malintent and more about poor execution. But those were the good ol' days when bullying was pretty basic, and if your kid did things like that to other kids, it basically meant you were just raising a little asshole.
But later on, the basics were the least of you worries. hardly on my mind at that point.
I found myself in the crux of bullying--that awkward transition between making fun and full blown Internet warfare. Most everything pre-middle school was physically based. No one went out of their way to put me in a category--it was just kids being terrible on the playground. But it was in sixth grade that the big guns were revealed. Sitting in gym class, I was there rocking out my windbreaker pant/jacket combo when Megan Johnson came up and told me, "Josh Davis said you want to give all the boys in the sixth grade a blow job." At the time, I had no idea what a blow job was--actually, because someone in my house dropped the ball on anatomy, I thought everyone had a penis so any form of sex was
Being an inquisitive child, I pretty much went straight to the teacher to ask what a blow job was. Unfortunately, no one would answer my question because, well, it is not on the curriculum to explain those kinds of things to a sixth grader. So eventually I had to take it home and ask my parents, and in doing so, I had to explain why it was that I needed to know. And that was the first of many bully-related blow ups that happened in my house. I think I caught the gist of what a "BJ" was, but it was completely overshadowed by my dad's reaction to what had happened. Obviously, I didn't want to go around doing that to anyone in the sixth grade. I wanted enough lunch money to get pizza and corn from the cafeteria on Friday, and I wanted to always be picked to answer questions in Social Studies. Basic--I knew what it meant, and I was good.
After my dad left to calm down, my mom tried to explain to me the basics of sex, but she gets just as nervous about intercourse as I do, so eventually she gave up and just decided to give me double mashed potatoes at dinner to compensate for the rest of the sex talk. My dad came back into the room and told me, "Tomorrow, you're going to go to school and knock the shit out of him." Negative, Wendell. Contrary to the rest of my family, I'm not a fighter. I don't think it's because I ever feared what the pain might feel like or how much trouble I would get into--I think I was primarily concerned about my face. And I was right to think like that because I have a pretty symmetrical face. Later on, I would go to find out that a very small percentage of the world has perfect facial symmetry, so I think I ultimately made the right call.

A nice little sketch picture we got at the mall once
when I was in middle school.

But that wasn't enough for Dad because how can you just sit back and let some other kid at school hand out sexual favors on behalf of your son? In retrospect, if one of my dad's coworkers promised fellatio to all the other gu
ys on the construction crew on behalf of my dad, I wouldn't be too cool with it, either. But with limited options, there wasn't much to be done. I refused to fight, and I pleaded and pleaded with my parents not to take it to any of the teachers. The teachers couldn't do anything, or at least that's what I though.
So the next couple years were filled with stories like Josh's and mine. And they would all lead back to the same conclusion--no intervention: no fighting, no teachers, no nothing. Instead, I would go home and take a sheet of notebook paper and list random people from school: sixteen to be exact. And then I would sit for hours and decide how they would be voted out. That's right--I madSurvivor charts back home, and every challenge I would win immunity, and then I would be voted winner at the end of every game. By the time I was done with middle school I had about 247 million hypothetical dollars.
e fantasy
But eventually, the bullying didn't stop at school. Public access to the Internet was still pretty fresh out of the gate, and one of its earliest contributions to society was AOL Instant Messenger (AIM, lolz). Anyone who was anyone had an AIM screenname (rocketdog485--you're welcome) and a totally jazzed out away message to accompany it. It didn't take too long for the guys at school to get ahold of it, and eventually, they started sending me messages over that. They would call me fag and tell me how no one liked me, and eventually, they told me to kill myself. Yikes!
And that is where the buck stopped. I made the fatal error of telling my mom about the situation, who then told my dad, who then let everyone in a three mile radius know via uncontrollable yelling, and then it was settled. We were going to have to take a trip over to this kid's house. Somehow, in my mind, the only thing that seemed worse than being made fun of and having people tell me to kill myself was my dad going over to Matt's house to have a conversation about it... with him and his dad. And my dad wasn't really the type to ask for a cup of coffee and sit down in the den and "talk things through." No, my dad was more the type to show up with a cup of his own coffee, and then throw it in someone's face. I imagined what would happen--how the cops might be called. And God, what would the people at school say?
So, my dad loaded me up in the truck and drove down to this kid's house. I remember looking over at him--he hadn't even changed from work. Grease on his jeans and a tee shirt from the work day. Dad's always been a really hairy guy, so he had this monster sized beard, and his back hair was creeping up the collar of his shirt. At a glance, he kind of looked like an animal--especially when you took his words into consideration on the way there. He was pretty much silent, which is a sure fire sign that he's about to have a total meltdown. Occasionally, he would nod to himself and mutter something like, "Yep. This is going to get fixed. Tonight." I was 74% sure that I had shit in the passenger seat, but I didn't want to say anything because, honestly... who wanted to throw any more gasoline on that flame?
We pulled up to Matt's house and my dad started walking to the door. I stayed in the truck, partially because I had little to no feeling in my legs, partially because I couldn't stand to see what was going to happen. He stopped about halfway to the door and turned around and stared at me. I knew what he wanted, but I wasn't going to do it until he told me I had to. "Get out of the truck, you're coming with me."
Mortified, I made my way to the door--my dad opted to not use the doorbell, but instead just went straight for the full blown bang on the door. Not a little "shave and a haircut" knock, but more like a "YOUR HOUSE IS ON FIRE, YOU SHOULD PROBABLY GET OUT" knock. Eventually, this scrawny looking man in glasses comes to the door--the adult version of what I imagine his kid would have looked like once he stopped pantsing people in the locker room and using the term "fag" so freely in public. He asked if he could help us, and my dad cut right to the chase, "Well, your son has been picking on my son, and it needs to stop." Of course, his dad very calmly suggested that we go back to the beginning, but there was no time for that. We were here on a mission--a Kirkland mission--and that mission didn't need to take any more than five or ten really, really terrifying minutes.
Eventually, the man called Matt to the door, and there he stood--looking angelic as ever, as if he had just got done brushing the dog or doing homework or something completely unlike himself at school. His dad asked him if he knew who I was. "Yeah, that's Justin. We're friends at school." And that's when I got angry. Friends at school? Hardly. My friends were the acquaintances that I put on my Survivor alliance at 4:30 when I got home from school. This kid was not my friend.
Then his dad asked him one of the stupidest questions that you can ask a kid, "Son, are you making fun of Justin at school and on the Internet?" Oh yes, father. I call him all sorts of names. Names you might not have even heard of! Isn't it grand? "No, I would never do that." And that's when Wendell, formerly known as my dad, took over the conversation. "Don't stand here and lie to me, you little son of a bitch." Apparently, in most common suburban neighborhoods, calling a child an SOB is not a readily accepted term of endearment. Then again, SOB is not a term I heard very often back home either--it was usually reserved for our neighbor who would shoot turkeys behind our house and our pet rabbits whenever they would scratch Dad. The kid's dad looked back at us and said, "I don't think it's appropriate to say that," and then Wendell responded, "Well, I don't think it's appropriate for him to tell my son to kill himself online." And then, because my dad knows how to prepare for a situation, Wendell pulled out a stack of papers--printed out AIM conversation between myself and Matt. The jig was up--Matt had officially been busted.
His dad looked at the papers and then down to Matt, and said, "We're going to have a serious conversation about this, and you're probably going to be grounded from the computer for a while." Solid parenting, if I say so myself. But the conversation was not over, because Wendell did not find this a suitable enough warning. I could see those backhairs raising up, like a mountain lion about to pounce. He pointed his finger at Matt and said, "If this ever happens again, I'm going to come back here, and I'm going to beat his ass. And then I'm going to beat your ass for raising him." And then, he pulled out one of my favorite Wendell Kirkland moves, which I like to call the "Why Haven't You Said Anything Yet?" After he's said something like, "I'm going to kick your entire house's ass," he gives you about two seconds to process it, then raises his eyebrows and slightly shakes his head, as if you were already supposed to come up with something to say in response. It's his final way of saying, "I've won this battle. You can leave now." As a teenager, I was the victim of a couple of these responses when I did things like not get up in time for school, or a blatant disregard for cleaning the pool.

And this is what he's turned into today.

We got back in the truck and he looked over at me and said, "I think we got that taken care of," and then Matt never spoke to me again. Before I was out of middle school, we repeated this routine two other times with two other kids. Those kids don't speak to me either. I think by the time I was a junior in high school, most everyone knew that if you really went after me, my dad would show up at your house and essentially threaten to burn it to the ground. People always said things--bullies never really go away. They just knew when to stop.
Looking back on it, Dad's approach might have saved me from something really bad down the road. Sure, it was pretty ridiculous that your dad would go to your schoolmate's house and reenact an episode of Maury to get the point across, but every parent has their own way of getting the job done. Eventually, bullying pretty much came to a stop--somewhere near the end of high school. But to this day, if something bad happens at work or if I pass a jerk on the street, I think twice about whether or not I should tell my dad about it, because the last thing I need at this point is for my dad to show up at work to let my boss know who the boss really is.

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!

Sinners in the Hands of an Angry Cat Toy

Yesterday, when I was sitting in class, two girls were up in front of the class giving a presentation. Meanwhile, I was on Facebook, Twitter, my email, my school email, and by chance... the same website that the girls presenting were on in front of class. All of a sudden, the girl's computer died and she was stranded. The military guy sitting next to me looked over and saw the similar website and volunteered me, or rather my computer, to be the proxy in the middle of their crisis. Immediately, I started minimizing tabs, but not so many that it would uncover the up close shot of Jennifer Lawrence that is my wallpaper. Right as the girl got to my computer, I had an unreasonable number of windows minimized, and then it hit me. Dear God. What if they get on Google?
These people weren't my roommates or a best friend... this was a giant class of people looking at my computer screen, which by this time, was reflected on a giant projection screen. And of course, they didn't just need it for that website--they needed it for two or three websites. So, they opened up tab after tab revealing my most visited pages, which happened to be much less revealing than I had anticipated. But it wasn't the most visited pages that I was worried about... it was what happened when you type that first letter into the search bar. There were safe letters and... well... not safe letters. And I sat there going through the alphabet in my mind, saying a silent prayer that they didn't need the letters G or O or P or L or F or K or N or Y or S or T in particular. What if they found my Neopets account, or the one time I searched "How to Make Meth?" There were too many Google searches I worried about, and not a damn thing I could do about it. My life was on display and the only thing worse than typing one of those letters was the sinking feeling in my stomach that those letters might get pressed.

I'm sorry, Skeeter. I'm just... sorry.

And it reminded me that I've always been that way... the guilty one. That was my computer, and it didn't matter what came up... But the embarrassment of what happens if people find out my personal details is something that has always haunted. And one of the first occurrences of it happened when I was 11 years old.
As an 11 year old, I was pretty much pure of heart. I attended church every week, and it was actually my preacher that gave me my cat, Skeeter. Middle school was rough, so Skeeter was my best friend. We would hang out together all the time and do cool stuff like watch television and walk around the house. Skeeter's favorite toy was a small mouse that cost about 1.99 from Wal-Mart. The way it worked is that you would pull out the toy mouse's tail and it would vibrate around the room, and Skeeter would chase after it. One day, Skeeter and I were doing our thing, hanging out in my room, and tossing the vibrating mouse. He would chase after it and then carry it back to me, like a dog. I'd pull it's tail again, and we'd repeat the cycle.
But on this day, everything changed. I pulled the mouse's tail out, but because of my fantastic coordination, I dropped it. In my lap. And all of a sudden, I felt something. I started to pick up the mouse, but then, well, you know... I just kind of left it there. The mouse stopped vibrating, and I stared down at my lap, then I looked at Skeeter. He didn't need to be there for this--actually, I'm pretty sure that I didn't need to be there either. Skeeter waited there in front of me to throw it again, but I wasn't sure what to do because I wasn't really sure what was going on either. I picked Skeeter up and put him out of my room because even at a young age, I really wasn't feeling the whole voyeurism thing. I sat back down in the butterfly chair in my room (because we all had butterfly chairs... don't lie) and held the mouse in my hand. As an 11 year old, I think that was my first insight as to what it might be like to do cocaine, or heroin maybe.
I went and listened at the door to make sure everyone, including Skeeter, was away from the premises. With no one in ear shot, I pulled the mouse's tail again and "accidentally" dropped it again in my lap. And this is the point in the story where I move on to more pertinent things...
So, two weeks later, no one in the house knew where Skeeter's favorite toy had gone. We had searched and searched, and when they asked if I had seen it, I remember becoming really defensive, Why would I have seen his stupid toy? I don't know where it's at. It's no where that I could find it. My skills and persuasion and lying had obviously not began to fully develop at this point, so I might have well said, Hey guys, go check in the pocket in my butterfly chair--it's there. Promise. But other than that, I kept my mouth shut. We all have our secrets, mine just happened to vibrate in ten second intervals at the pull of a tail. But even with all the secrecy and, um, other stuff, there was this sinking feeling that what I was doing was wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Nothing was making sense anymore because I had been introduced to this new, shaky world of happiness and confusion. But with all the positives, the negatives seemed to always outweigh the positive. I couldn't look at Skeeter because I took something that he thought was innocent and made it into... whatever I made it into. So after the longest time, I broke.

I don't think the brand name is a coincidence.

One night as I was going to bed, I called my mom into my room. She turned the light on, and I sat up in bed--already crying, because that's what I do--and she asked me what was wrong. I broke into confession mode: Skeeter can't play with that cat toy anymore. I did something to it, or with it. I can't let Skeeter play with it anymore. My mom wasn't quite sure what to say because from the way it seemed, I was just really irrationally upset about this cat toy. I continued. Mom, I took the cat toy, and I put it on my lap. And then I kept putting it there, and then "something" happened. And then my mom pressed her lips together--at the time, I thought she was going to kill me in the same way that I imagined God was going to. Looking back, I'm pretty sure she was trying not to laugh. And God's mad at me too because I'm pretty sure this is a sin. I shouldn't be doing this. I know I shouldn't, but I can't stop, momma. And then I burst into the dramatic tears, and she hugged me.
After I calmed down, she asked for a little more of a thorough explanation of what was going on with the cat toy, and then she calmly tried to explain that all little boys eventually did what I did--albeit not with a cat toy, but that's neither here nor there. I wasn't quite sure how you happened upon the same effect without a cat toy, but that's not what concerned me at the moment; I was more concerned about my eternal damnation via cat toy. My mom had to explain that God doesn't send 11 year olds to Hell for assaulting their torsos, and even after the fact, it took months for me to be okay with it all. My mom ended our conversation with, Just be careful and don't bruise yourself, which is advice that I hold near to my heart to this day. I never gave Skeeter back the cat toy, mostly because that just seemed like a really weird thing to do. I threw it away soon after the conversation I had with momma.
So zoom forward. The presentation ended yesterday and no critical letter was pressed. A sense of relief flooded my body, but a small part of me still felt guilty that there could ever be anything on my computer that I would restrict the world from seeing. But when I think back to the conversations I had with my mom about the numerous acts I thought would send me to Hell over the years, I think we both came to the conclusion that sometimes secrets are best kept secrets. And with that revelation, I closed my computer and left class.

Parisian Pills and Bags of Tea

So, I'm a generally nervous person with a lot of feelings. I believe Kelly Clarkson wrote a song about me once in which she said for her gentleman friend to keep his hand in her hand, his heart on his sleeve. That line... that's me. It's always nice to be the sensitive guy because lady friends naturally gravitate toward you and think that you're keen without being intimidating. Can I bench press you over my head? Probably not, but damn it, I'll remember your middle name and the kind of Chinese take out you like, and I think that probably counts for something. But the issue is that it ultimately does not translate well in boy world, and that's unfortunate. It's hard translating all of those feelings into short, declarative sentences, and then just leaving it there--so I eat a lot of those feelings and show up at high school trust falls.
And I'm sure that this topic seems tired: we get it, Justin. You don't jive well with your own gender. The horse is dead, put the stick down. No, no children. This is not your typical social awkwardness story. This is the story about how I used pills to make friends, in Paris nonetheless.
The whole thing started in high school when we were presented with the opportunity to go to Paris with the rich high school about an hour away. Us poor South Knoxville kids were like, Yeah, we've been to Paris, Tennessee. It's not as great as it sounds, but apparently this was the real thing... like, Paris, France. So I asked my parents that if I could somehow manage to foot half of the 2,000 bill, could I go. They agreed, and naturally, as a really undisciplined fifteen year old, I think I managed to save up about 600 dollars. Because I'm adorable, we managed to come up with most of the rest, and in a last minute attempt, my dad decided to throw a charity fishing tournament to help all of us make the rest of the money. The fishing tournament only got us about seventeen dollars each, but whatevs. At the end of the day, we all managed getting our money in on time, and we were really going... to Paris.
So we were all excited until I found out the rooming situation. There were only three boys going, so we would automatically be rooming together... in a room... with two beds. Yes, the idea made me uncomfortable, but I could handle it. It wasn't until one of the guys that I was rooming with started to talk about it that I got truly nervous. He told me that we were purposefully going to sleep in the same bed and that he was going to sleep naked and one night, he was going to tea bag me. Oh, you don't know what that means? Go look it up on Urban Dictionary. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you might throw up a little in your mouth. I know I did. I kept all the taunts to myself, too embarrassed to bring it up in fear of what people might say. There were too many things that could result from it... too many ramifications. I couldn't sleep for weeks; there were too many things worrying my mind:
a) Leviticus
b) my general distaste for the human form
c) the fear of suffocation
d) or any combination of the above
So I went around terrified of Andrew, trying to figure out a way to not find myself naked in bed with him... or dare I say, teabagged. My parents essentially told me that they didn't care if I could possibly get teabagged. We already paid for the trip, so I pretty much had to go. I didn't want to tell the teacher because that was too predicable. Everyone would expect it, and it would put an even bigger damper on the trip before it began, so I just tried to keep my composure. I practiced sleeping on my face in hopes that maybe I could avoid the teabagging and/or smother myself at my own hand. The time finally came, and I boarded the plan with nude Andrew and my only hope for salvation: my other roommate, Scott.

Before then, I had never really been away from home, and on top of the pending sexual assault I was facing, I wasn't sure how to handle the idea of being away for an extended period of time. So as the plane was taking off, I took a couple of Dramamine to help me fall asleep. Ironically, the entire situation flipped when we got to Europe. Knowing that I was missing home, Andrew became my go to, and in the worst moments he would talk me down. After a couple of days, I began to let my guard down, and the threats of tea bagging (no, seriously, if you don't know what it is, you need to look it up) decreased with each day.
But with one threat gone, another one arose. Because of my regular anxious nature, in addition to my homesickness, I decided to ration my Dramamine out so that I had enough for each night. After our third night in France, Scott asked Andrew and I if we would sit down with him for a talk. He seemed pretty intense about the situation, so we obliged. After stumbling around his topic of conversation, he finally said, Justin, you really need to stop taking those pills. This could get out of hand quickly. He began to tell us a story about his friend who got addicted to pain killers and eventually was hospitalized with his addiction to prescription meds. The room fell silent, and Andrew and I exchanged glances... not really knowing what to say. After a while I looked at Scott, with pills still in hand, and said, Scott, I'm so sorry. I picked up the bottle and opened it. I didn't know, I won't do it, and I started to slide the pills back in the bottle... and then I slammed them into my mouth and swallowed them, screaming out, I CAN'T STOP MYSELF!!
And Scott and I haven't really talked to each other since. But the important part of this story is that I learned something that I have to remind myself of often: when in a room full of boys, it's always best to make fun of the person with the most emotions... wait, no. That's probably bad. In reality, I think what it boils down to is that when in Rome, sometimes you just have to do as the Romans do. Apparently it is (or was in high school) fun to threaten people of your own gender with sexual advances while they're sleeping. I never really understood it, nor did I attempt to joke about it, but I did learn other things, I guess. Like "when in Paris, pop low doses of sleeping pills." At least one person will laugh for an hour, and that's what we're going for in the end, right?

Eight Reasons That I Don't Want To Get Married Right Now

I love marriage. It's precious and beautiful and all those other really sweet words that people like to put in their vows. I look forward to the day that I find someone to spend the rest of my life with because isn't that all what we're looking for in the long run? We want that person that will stick with us through everything because the idea itself is a marvel, and I don't mean that sarcastically. There are days that I wake up and don't like myself, so to know that there could be someone out there that wakes up beside me and regularly sees something inside of me that I don't even see myself... that's amazing.
But, for now, I'd just like that in the "living in sin" sense. Give me someone to wake up with, sure, but I'm not interested in making it official quite yet. This past summer was full of marriages, and let me tell you... the horse is dead. You all killed it; you beat it with a stick, stuck it in a photo booth with a fedora, fake mustache, and glasses with no lenses, pulled it out, made it do the cha cha slide for an unprecedented four times, shoved red velvet cake in its face, then turned it to glue so that you could finish your latest Pinterest project. That poor, poor horse.

8. None of my friends can afford to get me the wedding presents I want.
I've seen you people. Everybody wants to go out, but no one wants to drive because we don't have any gas. And I can see it... I'll be asking for a flatscreen TV or something equally awesome, and your ass is going to roll up at my wedding with a set of coasters. I don't want your coasters right now because you'll be able to say Oh, well. You know things are tight for me right now. I want to wait until you have a good job with a lot of moneys... then I want to hear your excuses. The longer I wait, the nicer the presents I will get. In my opinion, weddings are not about solidifying my love for someone in front of all of my friends. If I haven't done that on a daily basis, then I have no business getting married. Weddings are for presents. The end.

7. I don't have any neat ideas for hipster wedding pictures.
I'm just going to go ahead and get it out there: I'm not on Pinterest. I like the idea of being super crafty, but I'm still cleaning up a glue gun mess from when I was seven. So for the safety of everyone in my life, it's really best if I don't try getting creative at my own hand. But that leaves me with everyone else's ideas. Cropped pictures in sepia of a girl walking around in casual clothing inside of a barn or pastoral setting. That's pretty much where I grew up, and to me, there's not really any unique, quaint sentiment that comes along with it. So, I'm going to wait until something else becomes popular... preferably painted family portraits. Put that in the newspaper and on your save the date. Paint me acrylic or paint me single.

6. You don't have to be married to have babies.
As many of you probably saw on Facebook, I'm expecting. It's true. After giving it some thought and realizing that I've become pretty good at feeding myself, Andrew and I have decided to bring another animal besides Ben into our home. If I have my way, it will be a little boy named Chico. He's four months old, and he's been caged for about a week now. I will walk around with him and refer to myself as "the man." If I can take care of a cat for at least a year without killing it, then maybe I'll entertain the idea of welcoming a human into my home. From what I hear, people that get married get bored after awhile... and when the sex gets predictable, they have kids. Even if I get bored in my twenties, I'm assuming that it's pretty easy to get a baby. People leave them at the park down the road from my apartment all the time. You don't need a spouse to have a baby when you have a nursery next to the basketball court.

5. I haven't had a successful relationship in... oh yeah. Awkward.
My longest relationship that I've had last six years, and now she's married, so that's over. Thanks, Kasi. But even when we were Bo and Hope from Days of Our Lives, our entire relationship was a roller coaster and a half. The last relationship I was in was nursed by too many indie record songs to count. I'm just not too good at making these things last too long, and that's frustrating, so I'm going to assume that without some further practice, I'm probably going to crash and burn... but with a license and a family attorney. I don't have a super athletic-like day then sign up for a 5K... the same theory applies.

4. I haven't met anyone with a super cool last name.
I know, I know. I'm a boy. But listen to me for a minute. You should never pass up an opportunity to upgrade if given the opportunity to, so I'm going to keep my options open. I have a pretty hard last name to beat. Not only is Kirkland a pretty strong name, but it also is the name of a pretty cool furniture store, and it allows me to have my initials be JK. I have a pretty sweet deal, but that doesn't mean there isn't a sweeter deal out there. Don't waste what really conservative folks say is the only marriage you'll ever have by getting a shitty last name or keeping the shitty last name you have. Don't waste an excellent opportunity to improve your drivers license by careless 20-something mistakes.

3. In 44 states, I'm limited to only a 50% selection of who I can marry.
I like my options. If I go to Burger King, I expect to be able to get chicken or a burger. And yeah, it's nice that I have the option, but what happens when someone who can't eat beef shows up and all the chicken is gone. It's stupid and wrong and an ugly, ugly idea to even consider. So, if everyone isn't allowed to get married, then I don't really care to get married either. Getting married seems like purposefully overdressing for a party...  I get it. You have nice clothes, but there's people here who don't. I guess for me, marriage doesn't make a lot of sense if it's only available for a certain group of people. And it's not like it's a crazy assertion to let two consenting adults pay their taxes together and have power of attorney... it's not like I'm trying to marry Chico (which would be a double hit, because he's a cat and a dude). If I find a dude and hit it off, and he doesn't want to watch sports when Grey's Anatomy is one then (gay)me on.

2. Even if it's without consent, I have someone to snuggle with anytime I want.
I forgot to put that I do this in my online roommate profile, but Andrew has quickly found out that more times than not, I'm going to corner him and then nuzzle against him for about thirty seconds or so until I get my physical-interaction-fix. I agree that it's important to have a physical interaction with someone, but I'm going to get a little liberal and say... you don't need a ring on your finger to do that. And I'm lucky because he doesn't try and escape me that often. And when I'm done, he listens to me complain and celebrate my life. Maybe it's a little too I Love You, Man for your taste, but I don't think it's particularly important to solidify a spouse early on as a source of love and support. Call me lucky, but I have a pretty great support system that I never have feel obligated to buy dinner for, and having him around is practice so that I can see what drives people so crazy that they don't want to be around me anymore.

1. I just recently realized that I have no idea who the $&#^ I am.
I mean, yes, there's a base. All of the stories I've written on this blog are evidence of that. But when you're 22 years old and move away from home and know not a single person, you really start having to look really hard at yourself. I came out of eighteen years of living with my parents followed by four years of living on a college campus. Then, you're thrust out into the world and you start proving to yourself who you really can be. And I guess you could argue that you're going to be changing forever, and I suppose you're right. I'm going to maybe be self-absorbed in saying this, but I think that right now is our time. This is your chance to figure out why you are you. And people say, we can grow together, but I want to share my life with someone... not forge it into one. My biggest fear is to look at someone that I love one day and realize that I didn't give them the time to become their own person and know that we have grown apart.

How To Do Sex

In my personal experience, I've come to learn that I am apparently one of the least sexual creatures that has ever walked the planet. I don't go up and hit on anyone at bars. I don't talk about my penis, mostly because the concept of genitalia in general makes me laugh. When it comes to sex, I'm just not the person that should ever be consulted for advice, opinions, or general knowledge. To give you a brief background of my anatomical expertise concerning boys and girls, at about seven years old, my dad told me that the reasons that all men wear pants is because their penises grow down to their ankles, thus forcing men into slacks for the rest of their lives. I believed that until I was probably twelve years old.
This knowledge conflicted with my basic childhood belief that both men and women were sporting around penises, which probably explains a lot about my life now... but that's neither here nor there. Apparently, no one ever took me aside to explain what a vagina is, what it looks like, or what its function is. But around fourth grade, all of that began to change. It was obvious that my peers were becoming concerned about me, so they took me aside and told me about... it. Considering that as an adolescent, I became woozy at the thought of sexual intercourse, I only have three distinct times in my life that anyone has talked to me about sex successfully, and because of that, that's pretty much the only sexual knowledge I have in my repertoire.
The first time, the preacher's daughter of my church took me aside at lunch and started telling me about how sex worked. She skipped the basics, assuming that I understood that there were two kinds of sexual organs. She started telling me about the basic details of intercourse. Apparently, as told by Emily, what happens is that people start kissing, and you do that for a while. Then, you stop kissing and take all of your clothes off. Then, the daddy stabs the mommy over and over until someone screams. Then you're done. Being the early feminist that I was, I immediately became concerned because in my mind (since both parties at the time had a penis in my mind) it didn't seem fair that daddy did all the stabbing all the time... then the second question arose... where do they stab each other? I went home and inspected my own body, trying to determine where it was on a body that someone could get stabbed. Eventually, I settled on the idea that all sex, as defined in the tradition sense, involved the anus.
The next day, unsure of my current hypothesis, I decided to consult my teacher, Mrs. Adamson. Like most of my teachers, mentors, and professors, I felt closer to Mrs. Adamson than pretty much everyone else in the class, so it wasn't a big deal for fourth grade Justin to walk up and say, Mrs. Adamson... Dawn... I need you to explain this crime of assault to me that people call sex... or something like that. She approached the situation very carefully, though it was apparent that I had really put her in a position. She began to explain to me how sex actually worked and how it was between a man and a woman when they were truly in love and married. All of a sudden, sex didn't seem so scary. Maybe it could even be a kind exchange.
Luckily, I didn't have to discuss sex again until I was a seventh grader... but right there in the middle of Mrs. Holtzclaw' geometry lesson, Nicole (who had quite the reputation herself of knowing how to do sex) decided to verse me on all of the other things that can be done during sex that didn't get you pregnant. The whole thing made me ill... mouths and all these other organs in wrong places; the whole thing seemed like a really angry person trying to jam a puzzle together. None of the things she was talking about made any sense. If people were just supposed to do sex when they're in love and married and wanting to have a child, then why were all these other methods even relevant? And even as a twenty-two year old, I still sometimes struggle to realize what it is that appeals to people in regard to all the things that Nicole told me about.
Because I'm a distrusting people, I went home and asked my dad about all the things she had told me about, and if memory serves me correctly, he just kind of ignored the whole thing. Not in that "father doesn't want to be apart of your life, get me another beer" kind of way. More in the "I'm just going to let you ride this one out on your own, little buddy" way. Eventually, I just concluded on the fact that since Nicole was already getting around so much as a seventh grader, it probably was best not to take any of her lessons as fact. I liked the idea (and still do) that people just go into a bedroom, close their eyes, have traditional sex, and then it's over. And when it's over, you hug or shake hands or go catch up on the past week's television. Yeah, that's what people do.
Sadly, my introduction to sex was a three part series, and the final installment was as a junior in high school. I had been dating this girl named Ally for about two weeks, and considering that most teenage boys' hormones resulted in hand towels that were stiff as a board, my dad decided it was time for us to have the talk. I vaguely remember the exchange on our back porch, but honestly, I've worked to block out most of it. I do specifically remember that it was at night and we did not have the back porch light on. Essentially, I think that was to keep either one of us from having to look the other one in the eye. The speech went approximately as so:

So, you know a guy has a... goober. (Author's note: I have NO IDEA why our family ever found it permissible to substitute the word penis for "goober," but even as what most people would consider a full blown man, you will still here the word "goober" used on occasion at my house) And girls... well, the don't. Well, a guy takes his, um, and then the girl has her... well, you guys get into a rhythm and sometimes you'll work together, or she'll do the work, or you'll do the work... and then you're done. Do you have any questions?

Negatory. I wanted to say something like "BREAK!" and then run back inside or something, but I just kind of sat there for a while... giggling. It may have been because we were talking about sex, or because it was the most nondescript conversation about sex that I had ever had, or maybe it was just the recurrence of the word "goober" in conversation, but all I could do was laugh.
And as I've gotten older, I suppose I've gotten a better grasp on the concept of sex, why people enjoy some of the less essential parts, and how the whole thing works. My personal sex life is about as active as Mandy Moore's in A Walk to Remember, but that's partially because I don't search for random sexual activities like most lonesome and wayward twenty-somethings. I'm not saying I'm an angel... okay, I am. But in terms of learning anymore intricacies about why and how people do sex, I'm not really interested. Thanks to Emily, Nicole, and that really awkward blackout sesh on the back porch with my dad, I'm pretty sure I have the details of sex nailed down at this point... no pun intended.

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.

Secondhand Girlfriend

As everyone knows, graduate school is for people who could not find the love of their life in undergrad. That's why it simultaneously pains me and pleasures me to see the end of my personal wedding season come to an end today... at least for a couple months. This past summer, marriage has practically become the new black, and with the possibilities that could unfold this November, my likelihood of marriage could go from potentially either gender back down to one, which would mean that for tax purposes, I would have to go back to seeing only women. Sigh, oppression.

And for any conservative Republican reading, I would like to let you know that if that does happen and the idea of gay marriage is extinguished by the reign of Romney/Ryan that my chances do not just dwindle from 100% likelihood of marriage down to 50%... no, no. It dwindles down to about 17%. And I'm here to tell you why: you see, when it comes to the dating world, I'm not the most confident person. Sure, I can be your man's man after a couple shots of tequila and something along the lines of a horse tranquilizer, but I'm not the kind of person that just randomly walks into a bar and shoots someone a line. I don't say any of the words on the following list: tits, the p-word that I won't even spell out, breastacles, rack, and the newly familiar term "hot pocket" (unless you're talking about the edible ones with chicken, in which case, yes, I will have one). Honestly, I'm more of the guy that you run into at Starbucks who spills his Pumpkin Spice Frappucino on your shirt, then incessantly offers to buy you a new wardrobe with money he doesn't have, and then somehow you connect with him over the free form jazz playing overhead that neither of us understand. Call me awkward, but after that moment... I'm a keeper.
But the problem is, I haven't been in many Starbucks lately because I'm pretty sure when I check my BB&T bank account the balance reads: three nickels, an orange piece of paper, and a two-thirds used tube of Burt's Bees, which leads me to believe that my bank knows way too much about what's in my pockets.
So instead, I'm left at the mercy of the people that I just happen to pass by. This week, in one of my graduate classes, I met a girl. She's cute and has an adorable personality, and honestly, the whole thing was a little intimidating. I haven't date a girl in years, and as soon as I brought her over to my apartment to watch a movie, I was immediately reminded why. As she was on her way over and I was desperately trying to simultaneously tuck in the couch cover and hide the duct tape penis that my roommates had made, it hit me. When I find myself legitimately interested in a girl, one of my male friends steps in, says something that automatically qualifies me as either: weird, a full blown homosexual, or sexually inept; and then moves in to claim his "territory." That could also be another downfall of mine; I've never believed any human to be territory... I'm pretty sure we extinguished that in 1863, but then again, I was an English major, not a History. But what a terrible feeling it was, hiding the silver penis with clammy hands because I knew that because of past occurrences, my fate was sealed. And in the middle of what could have been construed as a menopausal hot flash, I had another kind of flash... a flash back.
My experience with dating in high school was about as in depth as a mirage puddle in the desert. I had two girlfriends, and those "relationships" lasted about fourteen minutes. It wasn't until I got to college that I had my first experiences with this friendship thievery or "lady jacking," as I come to later coin it. My freshman and sophomore years were dedicated to an on again, off again, somewhat polygamous relationship with my friend who actually got married today. Though we would just refer to it as passionate, most would probably have called it abusive on several different levels. Then, I spent the latter half of my sophomore year pining after a fellow RA who I'm pretty sure was dating another guy for the duration of that crush, which eventually led to the end of the semester, which I'm sure will be covered in a future post.

However, it was the summer after sophomore year that I fell for this tiny, petite blonde with giant blue eyes. If you will travel back to 1982 with me for a moment, I'm pretty sure that Michael Jackson would have referred to her as a PYT (Pretty Young Thang). And as interested as this tenderoni (last Michael Jackson reference, I promise) seemed to be in me, it all fell apart that she, my friend John, and me went night swimming. The night seemed to be a blast, and I was confident that I was making stellar progress on the flirting front, but then again, I always think I'm making good progress when it comes to flirting. I have the same problem when I play Mario Kart; I always think I'm winning until I glance around and notice that everyone is waiting on me to finish lap 2 so that I will be disqualified and move on to the next race. I had told John how much I liked her, and like most of my guy friends, he promised me that he would play wing man and totally get me the hook up. I never really wanted the "hook up" because if I learned anything in 7th grade sex ed, it was that when you have sex with someone, you're having sex with everyone they've ever slept with as well. As a twenty-two year old, that statement only reinforces my absolute fear of germs which may also explain why I've avoided traditional intercourse like the plague.
After night swimming was over, John offered to take Caitlin back to their dorm because it was so late, and that he'd see me tomorrow. Such a rookie error. John had left his phone in my car that night, so when I went driving the next day, I didn't notice it until the phone lit up... a text from Caitlin. "John, I'm so sorry for what happened the night before. I'm so embarrassed. We can't tell Justin." Luckily, Taylor Swift was playing in the background: something hateful and determined to keep me focused on driving instead of pulling a u-turn to drive through their dorm. And it wasn't soon after that my ex-girlfriend called me to ask if I had heard that John was caught have sex in the bathroom of Gibson last night.
However, while I may not be good at getting the girl or solidifying any kind of flirty moment, I am exceptionally skilled at exploiting these moments to their full potential. I picked John up later that day to give him his phone back, and I waited until he was buckled in. I wanted us to be on the highway; I wanted to make sure that even if he jumped out of the car that he would have some serious road burn to show for it. I turned to him and said, "So when were you going to tell me that you and Caitlin had sex in the bathroom?" He was frozen and with no place to go.
It was one of my weaker performances because I wasn't used to one of my friends taking someone I was interested in and doing the sex with them. But, as I joined a fraternity, I became much more well-versed in the politics of flirting, dating, and having sexual intercourse in the bathroom. Soon, it became sport to me, with my strongest showing being at a fraternity party when I announced that two people had just got done having sex upstairs. Our freshman year, we were instructed to find our vocation: the thing that made us happiest in the world. I assume that thing was supposed to be tied to some kind of monetary income, but alas, I had found mine elsewhere: exploiting and humiliating people that had sex with people I was interested in. Eventually, I would return the finishing punch to John my senior year by comparing the passed out girl on his bed to a "sitting rabbit that a hunter would never shoot" until she came to and ran out of his room. Then, I would go and make out with someone else in another room in the apartment (see A Series of Brief Apologies to College Flings).
Sadly, the first story went awry anyway as the girl I invited over has a boyfriend, so like most cases with me and girls, I will assume the role of her brother/gay best friend/super cool guy friend, which is completely okay because I excel in those roles anyway. It is refreshing to know that with the very small number of people I've met in the DC Metro area, there really is much less personal competition in my life. However, the gay population is much higher up here, so when it comes to men, I guess I'll have to keep my dukes up. But as a romantic contender, I like to believe that I have grown as a fighter and a flirter. There are no rules in adult world; it's no holds barred. Pat Benatar said it best, Love is a battlefield. Oh, Pat... you're too insightful for your own good.

Children of the Porn

As my friend and I were having a sleepover (at 22 years old, mind you), we were flipping through the porn titles on television, picking out our favorite ones based on creativity and shock value. Neither of us were ever inclined to actually watch one, but the titles were fantastic. They all follow the same basic structure, kind of like a Mad Lib. (Adjective) (Inappropriate term for a female) (Inappropriate term for having intercourse) (on/in/under/with) (dealer's choice: choose whatever word you want), then follow it with either the number 3, 4, or 8. And after considering the gross (that's a double entendre if I've ever seen one) amount of pornography that someone can buy for a shockingly high rate of 14.99, I came to the conclusion; we have entirely too much access to pornography. When I look back on my life, though my parents made a pretty decent effort from shielding me from the mysteries of what naked bodies looked like, I determined that I've been surrounded by the stuff my entire life. It was always by some weird circumstance or random situation beyond my control; my parents wouldn't let me watch the scene of Titanic when Leo and Kate fornicated in the Model T, but I managed somehow to stumble upon some kind of raunchy something on HBO. It made no sense to me, but there it was.

Yes, Kate Winslet? Do you have a question?

My dad had a friend that used to always come up and visit us when I was younger. We always called him Shorty, and to this day, I'm not sure what his real name was, if he even had one. But one day, Shorty called me out of the house from watching Power Rangers, which royally pissed me off, and said he had to show me something out in his truck. Frustrated and unfocused, I dragged myself from out in front of the television and out toward his white Chevrolet. I looked around for my parents, but they were missing... they were never missing. My spidey sense was tingling, and I could feel something weird about to happen. As he pulled something out of his truck, he gave me what I have come to know in my mind as "the man speech," I'm about to show you something awesome. This sh-t is something you'll remember for the rest of your life. And if you like it, you can keep it." Nothing about that sounded comforting, but before I knew it there it was. A Playboy. He would instruct me what to do next,  Check out those titties, boy. That's a nice set of titties. No sir. Not in my driveway. And for the record, I did not keep it.
Growing up, we would always watch WWE/WWF/WCW... whatever it was. Sable was always my favorite and probably not for the regular boy reasons. I liked her because she was built for winning, and wasn't afraid to powerslam another woman. She had cat music, and I was pretty fond of cats. She pulled people's hair, smacked them on the face, and never cried. So imagine my surprise when she was taking up two pages of that magazine wearing nothing but... paint. In my nine years of life, I was never so disappointed in a hero. Nudity was nothing to be prided upon in my family; it was something you reserved for the shower, and you should probably feel bad for being naked in there, too. I smiled because I thought I was supposed to, but inside, it made me nervous. I wanted my parents to show up, and in my own form of Catholic guilt, I wouldn't tell them about seeing Sable... all painted and full of sin... until I was in high school.
And the pornography has followed me around ever since. It's nothing I've ever wanted, but more, just happened upon me. The night I submitted my grad school application to Vanderbilt, I had been watching Easy A, a personal favorite of mine, on Showtime. I had since ignored it to finish the fine touches on what I deemed to be a beautiful personal essay and writing sample. Right as I started to press submit, I heard a sigh from the TV; porn. Again. I don't know how it ended up there, but apparently at some point in the night, TV just throws everything sacred out the window and starts playing the nasties. I was half tempted to apologize in my essay for the surprise porn playing in the background as I submitted my application, but I decided not to. I knew I wasn't getting in; the unholiness had seeped into the essay magically. There was no hope. So, I'm not sure what steps I can take to escape this pornographic undertone that keeps haunting my life. I assume that it came from a spell that Sable cast from the page on to me at just a tender nine years old.
As hard as Shorty may have tried, I just never really understood the point of it all. I imagined that as I got older, the reasons would start to connect. I would understand pornography. But like a lot of things about adult life, there was no clear cut methodology to understanding it. It's something you're supposed to "enjoy," but watching pornography for "enjoyment" makes as much sense to me as watching someone eat a piece of lasagna and getting full. The concept weirds me out the same way today as it did standing in my driveway, averting my eyes towards Sable's face wondering, as the precocious nine year old I was, what does your father think of this?

Not on Thesis Thursday

Every senior at my college is expected to complete a senior thesis. Most of the time, these projects are dreaded and feared for the three years leading up to it; for me, it was kind of like waiting on Christmas for way too long. I knew that my thesis experience would be magical, and it was. I had chosen the perfect advisor and later the perfect topic. I dedicated nearly an entire semester to writing six chapters of a novel, and there was no better circumstance that I could have. It was magical, with moments of absolute perversion and deception. All of my thesis meetings were on Friday, so I had the ritual of "Thesis Thursday."
I've had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder my entire life, and not the kind where "you have to have your pencil and paper straight on your desk." I'm talking, look into corners and count to eleven, and if you didn't do it in the correct order, you have to figure out some way to redo it before the person you're talking to thinks you're having an epileptic seizure. Part of that means that my routine is important, and it comes with a certain level of superstition. When I was little, if I didn't check the door four times, my mom was going to die in a car wreck. Even now, if I don't feel my away around the entire steering wheel, I imagine that I'll never get married. It's a horrible life, but ever so often, it can be helpful. On Thesis Thursday, I would have one Reeses, two bottle cherry Cokes, seven cigarettes throughout the night, and if I repeated that schedule every Thursday and wrote my ass off, then I would end up with an exemplary thesis. I'm sure that sounds petty, but if there was one award that I cared about in college, it was gaining exemplary thesis status.
The routine was all that more important on duty nights. As an RA in Carnegie, duty forbids you from leaving the building, let alone campus. If any part of my night was forsaken, the routine was thrown. I did everything in my power to ensure that my part of the deal was held up, and for nearly every night of my year long thesis process, it worked... so, imagine my surprise when my routine was foiled at the hand of... you (insert devious face akin to something you would see on a telenovela).

Scene: standard night of thesis writing, dimly lit room
Time: approximately 2:00am
Characters: me, roommate, roommate's girlfriend... thing.

I've never been the jealous type; I don't covet what other people have because most of the time, if I want something, I find a way to obtain it on my own terms. So, it never bothered me that my roommate was so persistent in having his girlfriend stay over. I didn't even mind occasionally hearing them have sexual intercourse. I was focused on my thesis. My characters. The plot. Sure, I found the groans and moans to be, at best, distracting, but you have your "screamers," as the kids put it, and your "WASPs." I was not one to judge on how vocal you should or should not be during some routine premarital sex. As I was rounding the two in the morning mark, I had realized that I had exhausted four cigarettes, the Reeses, but not a single cherry Coke. This was my boost or my Pokemon level up, if you will. I needed my cherry Coke like a boy needs a good southern girl, or air, or something else. Finish the simile to your liking, because even now, I can't seem to focus at the thought of opening up that 1970s model refrigerator to see NO CHERRY COKES. I began looking around the room, as if someone would be standing there empty handed. Nothing.
So, I walked into my roommates room, and there him and her lay. On his futon. At the foot of the futon, a garbage can containing two empty 20 ounce cherry Coke bottles. I stood over their bodies, my thoughts immoral. I was enraged, and though I'm going to clear up any sadistic suspicion of murder or assault, I can't say my thoughts were far from that extreme. I leaned over, whispering, Not on Thesis Thursday, bitches. I retreated back to my room, unable to leave for any more cherry Cokes. It was determined by the OCD gods: no exemplary thesis for me. Law had sequestered me there, because any more action than that eerie whisper would inevitably call for legal action... learned that the hard way sophomore year with an impromptu order of protection, but I digress.
I knew that I had to focus because my advisor expected pages, and in such a frazzled state, I hadn't come close to meeting my quota. Two hours later, most of that dedicated to Facebook, I returned back to the kitchen so that I could get into our bathroom. I opened the door, and there they stood: naked as a newborn. I had obviously caught them post-coital, or possibly on the way to bring shame and disgust to our shower. The gang was all there: penis, boobs, vagina. It was all that I could handle when I burst out, surely waking the rooms above and below me, Are you kidding me?! On Thesis Thursday?! They stood there, blankly, waiting on me to lunge forward or use my crafty RA powers to document them, but all I could do was go to my natural state. I held one finger out, waved it up and down their naked, unkempt bodies, and said, You need to fix this. Now. and I slammed the door.
The whole night was a disaster, I smoked at least nine cigarettes that night, didn't have a single cherry Coke, and I'm pretty sure I ate the remnants of a hamburger someone had left in the dormitory's lobby. I was a mess, so it was no surprise that I walked into my advisor's office the next day with an agenda: accept absolutely no fault for my lack of product. I opened her door and said, We have some things to talk about. I have four pages for you this week. My roommate had sex with his girlfriend all over the place last night, and he gave her my thesis Cokes. I'm sorry. As I continued to tell the story, all she could do was cover her mouth and listen. At the end of my rant, she took a sip of her coffee and sweetly said, We all have off weeks; it's really okay. I'm sorry, too. I don't think there was much more to be said. How can you punish someone who has obviously been deprived of not only two invaluable working necessities, but also his visual innocence?
I would go on to get an exemplary thesis; most people would say that this would disprove my theory that my OCD tendencies must be upheld for good things to happen, but to that, I have a retort. I think that those OCD gods, wherever and whomever they may be, looked down upon me that night and saw that I was in much deeper than I ever anticipated I would be. They pardoned me, kind of like a judge or lame duck Presidents, in the face of something much more grotesque and complicated than not upholding my compulsions. I will always be grateful for that, and I'm sure that if anyone learned anything that night, it was to always respect the sanctity of another man's carbonated beverages.

Nam: A Virgin's Apology

The life of a virgin is difficult and complicated, and the older that you get, the harder it is to explain to people why you have in fact still not had sexual intercourse. I'm not really sure what explanation there is for the whole debacle. You don't want to be the virgin that goes around and tells people oh yeah, I've had the opportunity, but I've just decided not to because then everyone will just think that you're the guy that makes up stuff to carry on an image. In contrast, you don't want to be the guy that says that you've never had the opportunity because that's just... unfortunate. No one finds religious reasons nearly as charming as they used to be unless you're Mormon or Catholic, and I was raised Baptist; as everyone knows, Baptists do it in the youth group room at an early age, so I really have no backing here. In response, I just tried my best never to draw attention to the subject. However, sometimes, you just get cornered.
My dad has regularly asked me if I'm still a virgin since I was probably sixteen years old. At times, the question has been a little more than intimidating. For years, I would proudly say yes and use my moral background as a guidepost for my answer, but as the years progressed, I began to feel less comfortable about telling him that I was a virgin. Like most families, when the situation becomes uncomfortable you either avoid it completely, or lie. In this case, I chose the latter. My freshman year, I decided that it was time to lose my fake virginity. Sometimes I wonder if losing my real virginity will be as heartbreaking and emotionally trying as losing my fake virginity. Telling my dad about my not-so-real sexual encounter was nothing like I'd hoped it would be. The story didn't have candles or soft music, and we definitely were not in love. I always though it would be special, losing my fake virginity, but it wasn't. I'm pretty sure it happened in my dorm room, and when he finally asked who it was with, I froze.

Nam Dang. I had sex with Nam Dang.


Dad had met Nam before, and honestly, I don't think he believed me from the moment I said it. Nam is one of my very best friends and kind of hot to top it off. She was a solid choice, but possibly an unrealistic one. Nevertheless, I lost my virginity to Nam, and it was quite a story to tell. I promised myself that he would be the only person I would tell that Nam and I had sex, but like most of the promises I make in my head (I will go to the gym 4 days a week, I will never eat sushi again, I will never drink again; I will not call that person just to make out), I kind of lied.
I never expected to be in a fraternity in college, and when I say that, I'm not talking about the all too infamous Jappa Kappa mentioned in "The Juicy Details of Being in a Greek Organization." No, in contrast, I'm talking about my decision to join Delta Kappa Epsilon. I entered into this Greek collegiate contract knowing that it was against school rules and that I would have to live in stark secrecy, which wasn't too far of a stretch from the lie I had told about Nam. Most people would say that the most difficult part of being in a fraternity is joining it, or "the pledge process." In contrast, I found that the most difficult part of being in a fraternity is by far keeping the conversation going. During one of our cabin retreats, I was out on the deck enjoying a nice cup of whatever mixture of gatorade and grain alcohol was sitting in the kitchen when one of the brothers asked me, So, dude. If you could f--k any girl at school, would would it be. What a tricky, tricky question I had literally never given any specific thought to. The answer given could have major ramifications. Abby Ogle was always who I considered the prettiest girl I had met in college, but for some reason, Abby and this young man's coarse terminology didn't match up in my head.
More brothers began to gather, begging for my answer, and I began to feel cornered. It was just like middle school all over when it just came out. "Nam. Nam Dang." I would get a deck-full of approving head nods as they all exchanged glances with one another, acknowledging my fine taste in Asian women. He responded So, you ever get that p--sy? Let's make a bulleted list. I like those.

• A) That's a nasty, nasty word. I hate that word.
• B) I really thought people only talked like that in movies. Movies that starred Jonah Hill that I would never purposefully see.
• C) Just in case I didn't say it explicitly enough, I'm sorry, Nam.

So there it was. The moment of truth. Actually, I'd just rather not talk about it. The approving head nods were gone. I was just stuck there in fraternal judgment. Kirkland, are you a virgin, bro? I could hear the snide remarks under the breath, the giggles. I had to say it; I had no choice. Well, in fact, I lost my virginity to Nam. There was a roaring sound of "ohhhhhhhhh" across the back deck of the cabin, and then someone went and fetched me a beer. They were proud; I think. I would later stand on a toilet in the bathroom holding my phone up in a corner just long enough to get signal and explain to Nam via text what had happened. I was out of control. It was all so out of control.
Much like the conversation with my dad, I'm fairly confident no one believed the story once the alcohol had subsided. We've all graduated now, and too many people have gotten pregnant or married to have any inkling of the one (or several) times that I alluded (or boldly stated) that Nam and I had pseudo (or just fake) intercourse. In terms of my impending virginity, I don't think it's really something to worry about. I've chosen the graduated step plan, just like the one I've chosen to pay off my student loans. The way it works is that you start with the lower payment and work your way up to the really intense payments that will screw you hard one day. See what I did there? I compared student loans to sex; isn't that grand?
It's been a while since I've used Nam as my proxy sex partner or anything close to it. The only time it's come up lately is when the people at my country diner job asked me if I had a girlfriend. I immediately mentioned Nam's name and all my virgin guilt came rising to the surface again. You see though, in Seymour if you don't have a girlfriend or wife, you're either worthless, homosexual, or a worthless homosexual. Nam has always been my defender against the ways of narrow minded or overly horny people. I hope one day to return that favor even though I have absolutely no idea how to do so. I look forward to the days when there actually is a legitimate name to throw down when people ask me who I've had sex with; that special someone hasn't quite surfaced yet. But, if anyone asks, just tell them Nam... even if she does get mad, I have a solid two hour jump on her to get the hell out of dodge.