Tina, Tina, Tina

In fifth grade, my family moved for the first time. It wasn't your classic kind of move, mostly because a big truck came along and pulled our first house off the foundation, put it in our back yard, then moved our bigger house back in. Ah yes, the classic trailer switch. For some reason, our family decided to make the switch in the middle of the winter, but because of the complicated nature of assembling the two pieces of a doublewide, we had to live out of the singlewide for a week. Most children would be concerned about not being directly hooked up to water or heat, but for me, the only issue that existed for me was--we were going to miss the premiere of Survivor: Australian Outback.
I was obsessed with Survivor, mostly because I would sit in class and contemplate how I could vote all of my classmates out but somehow manage to make them all still like me afterward. The year before, I watched Kelly Wigglesworth be completely undermined by the nakedness/baldness of Richard Hatch. It was both disgusting and enthralling to watch--but this season was going to be different: I could feel it. I demanded that we were fully moved into the new house before the premiere happened--there's not a lot of things that I demanded as a 5th grader, other than a full size recreation of Zordon from the Power Rangers and the premiere of Survivor. In reality, only one of those things were possible, and I didn't know at the time how important it would be for my development as a young man.
Once we got the all clear, we began to move furniture in--logically, I suppose we should have started with the couch or the bed, but we went straight for the television. Just by the skin of our teeth, we made the move just in time for premiere night. At the beginning of every reality show season, my dad and I pick favorites to win. The battle goes back to classic battles such as Clay and Reuben, as well as Carrie Underwood and Anthony Federov (which wasn't really classic at all, as much as it was just a really terrible decision on my part). But as the didgeridoo sounded from our old television speakers, I immediately knew who my pick would be. As the faces flicked across the screen, I saw her. No, she wasn't an Alecia, nor was she a Kel (obviously, because she would never be accused of stealing beef jerky. Hello), but I knew in my hear that she would win the game. Her name? Tina Wesson. She was from Knoxville, my hometown, and to me, if she came from Rocky Top, she was surely going to win. My dad told me that I was crazy right after he chose Colby. I wouldn't be moved though--I didn't care what happened because I knew that Tina was going to win.

Tina Wesson/Justin Kirkland, 2001

Looking back, as a fifth grader I was entirely too invested in the lives of people I didn't know. I would huddle the family around the television every Thursday night, hushing any company that might be over for dinner or to pick up a gun/bow/dead animal from dad. I was amazed by what I saw because as much as I love Tina, she wasn't that great at winning things. But still, at every tribal council, no one cared. Everyone just kept voting for other people and Tina lived on week to week all the way to the final three. I think maybe that's why Tina resonated with me so much--I wasn't good at winning things either, but people liked having me around. I imagined that if 2001 Tina and fifth grade Justin played Survivor together, we would probably make it to the final three as well.
Finale night came--I was a nervous wreck for a number of reasons. I was leaving for my first major trip ever the next day: a four day trip Washington D.C. I had never been away from home that long, and on top of my completely irrational anxiety over Tina's potential winning moment, I was on 24 hour nervous vomit alert. Colby won the final immunity and my dad immediately when into celebration mode. Colby was surely going to win against Kei... no. He took Tina. At the final tribal, Tina smoothly talked her way into the prize with a million-dollar-brand of Southern charm.  I cried that night--still not exactly sure if that was because of Tina's win or the pending trip, but either way, it was a lot of emotions. I boarded the coach bus the next morning with my special edition Survivor Entertainment Weekly, and I channeled that Tina Wesson power to make it through the trip. Mind you, I didn't eat and lost seven pounds in four days because of it, but I liked believing that was part of the whole "Survivor" mentality.
Throughout that summer, I begged my friends to play Survivor with me, which probably explains why I had such a tough transition into middle school the next year. You see, when you invite your friends over to play games that you've designed and made the rules for, then win every challenge, then vote each of them out of the game, sometimes you end up alone. Didn't matter to me though--I wanted to keep up that Knoxville Legacy. Eventually, my friend Lindsay told me that Tina was coming to speak at her church and that she would get me an autograph. With very few friends left and fewer and fewer people interested in playing Survivor with me, I decided that I needed to let this "Tina-hero-glory" go. I put the autograph on the back of a blue church flyer in my scrapbook and tried to let Tina go. My love for her was alienating. Everyone else's hero reports were on their grandpas or presidents or movie stars. Mine were about the 42 year old woman who once played Survivor. It was time to move on.

***

Skip forward four years: Tina was going to to be on Survivor: All Stars. She was voted out first. I choose to not recognize that it ever happened.

***

By the time I was a junior in college, Tina was a fond memory of my childhood--I had found other heroes, but like an old teddy bear, she had this place in my heart even if I didn't force my friends to play Survivor with me anymore.  Down the road from our college, the local Chili's would host a special night a couple times a year that part of the proceeds would go toward St. Jude's Hospital research. We would always try to make it down to grab dinner, and like usual, I had ordered a margarita and some kind of entree. 

My friends and I sat around the table trading stories from the day when it happened: out of no where, Tina Wesson walked in the door. I suppose the entire thing should have been simple. It had been ten years since the show premiered, and no one else seemed to make a big deal out of her being there, but I was frozen. Imagine if Superman walked in the door while you're casually sipping on margaritas... then you spit up that margarita on yourself and then go into a state of catatonic shock.

My friends had heard about my previous love of Tina Wesson at one point or another, most of the time after I had drank a number of margaritas and went back to those tender memories of elementary school. They kept telling me to go over, but I couldn't get up. It all seemed too crazy to be true. No matter who it ends up being, your childhood hero is kind of invincible. But the idea that mine was sitting about twenty feet away presumably weighing the benefits of fajitas over steak with her husband just seemed unreal to me. Eventually I asked the waitress to do a little investigation for me--she had confirmed it: Tina Wesson was in the restaurant.

I finished my margarita and mustered up as much courage as I could. After getting up from the table, I wasn't exactly sure how I wanted to approach the situation. It's not every day that you meet your hero. Somehow, I decided on some kind of walk that resembled a mix between a serious limp and a grapevine dance step. I spent so much time deciding on how I should walk that by the time I actually got to the table, I had nothing to say. Tina and her husband looked up at me and waited for me to say something. I couldn't look her in the eyes, and then all of that nervousness from that pre-Washington D.C. night/Australia finale came flooding back. All I could think was, "Please don't cry or throw up on Tina Wesson's table at Chili's." Eventually, words just came flooding out in this weird whisper-grumble, "Hello Tina Wesson. My name is Justin Kirkland. I saw you sitting over here, and I wanted to say thank you because you're my hero and I watched you when I was younger and I thought you did great."

Justin Kirkland/Tina Wesson, 2013

She looked nervous, and I probably would have been too, honestly. I don't like being interrupted when I eat, and though it's never happened, I'm assuming my unsteady, borderline creepy vibe didn't really help my case. Of all the responses I thought she was going to say, she said, "How old were you when that came on?!" I told her about fifth grade, strategically leaving out the details about voting out my friends and the haphazard hero reports I did based on less than reliable information from Survivor fansites. I don't remember much more from the conversation because I think I started to faint or something.

***

Tina finished fourth last night in her third season of Survivor. I was still an embarrassing fan girl sitting on the couch screaming at the television, unable to eat my pizza because that fifth grade Survivor anxiety was back all over again. Every couple of seasons, I apply to be on Survivor hoping to be the next Knoxville rockstar on the island. People have asked me why Tina--there's been more impressive winners or sneakier players, or hell... people like presidents and celebrities to write hero reports on. But for me, it wasn't about Tina changing the world... it was more about Tina changing my world. She wasn't just a woman on a television show to me, as much as she is proof that you can do whatever you want, even if you're from down in South Knoxville. As long as you're not walking over to meet her at Chili's, that is.

Murder in the Burbs

I'm living in the suburbs now, and in turn, life has become quite suburban-like. I moved in about a month ago. About two days in that I was living with all Mormons: a revelation that would catch most off guard, but I'm never one to turn down a good cultural experience... I have a whole fleet of Mormons back home, and in the case that Joseph Smith really does have it right, I would like to believe they will come to my defense. I made the Mormon discovery over delivery pizza, the most sacred of all meals. Ever since, it's been a bit of a Desperate Housewives situation, as little issues and secrets from the suburbs have bubbled to the surface between casseroles and freshly made cupcakes. It's not like anyone has been killed or anything, well, yet... but there's always room for those kind of things to happen. But, again, that's not to say that the first month hasn't been eventful or at least taken some getting used to.

Back home in Tennessee, my neighborhood was hardly suburban. Most of the scandals that occurred involved my neighbor sneaking up behind our house and shooting a turkey, which then followed with my dad physically attacking him... so on and so forth, no big deal. Our neighbors up the street had two German Shepherds named Hydro and Codone, which my dad convinced me were the names of two 70s sitcom characters. But more on them later. At my last apartment, we lived in the Arlington "hood" which, considering the overall archetype of Arlington County, is more like where most of working class America lives. There were a lot of quinceaneras that happened at the park up the road, and my roommate got his window busted in once... but we decided that was because no one in the neighborhood liked him. But the suburbs... that's uncharted territory for me. Imagine my surprise as a family biking down the street stared me down as I was rapping Holy Grail quite loudly in my parked car. In the suburbs, people expect better things out of you, namely... not singing Jay-Z songs with your windows down.
My first run-in happened just days after I moved in. I was smoking in my front yard, all Ryan Atwood-style as the local Marissa Coopers watched from their windows. I didn't think it was a big deal, until I realized that there was no where to put my cigarette butts. I would finish off one, and then lay it in the gutter so that it could... I don't know... disappear or something. Unfortunately, that didn't work. A couple days later, my roommate came to me and said, Um, I don't know if you smoke or something, but the lady next door stopped me and said that someone was smoking in our yard, and it didn't make the neighborhood look good... so I just wanted to let you know. Ostracized. I was Hester Prynn-ed right out of the neighborhood before I could even start.
But I've tried my best to fit into the mold the best that I can. Tonight for instance, we had a little dinner party on the back porch, I fixed pumpkin cupcakes, and I spent the majority of the night doing laundry and watching Pitch Perfect in the background. Everything seems so simple in this world because on the surface... it is. But as we learned from Desperate Housewives' 9 year tenure on ABC, life is not always as it seems. Before I left for Knoxville a little over two weeks ago, life was going pretty well. I'd gotten the anti-smoking neighbor off my back, and I was getting settled in to the normalcy of quaint-Arlington-life. I was dating someone. Sometimes, my roommates would sit down and watch Big Brother or some other show with me, and I had even gotten comfortable enough to whip out the ol' bottle of wine every once in a while, but when I returned... everything got more complicated. The dating was over, my friends were busy, Big Brother had ended for the season, and everything was just amiss.
My dating life, per the usual, is a bit of a sham. I was sitting at home on a Tuesday night in gym shorts and a t-shirt, watching my DVR-ed Dancing with the Stars. I was sipping on some wine, and of course as most young boys do whilst watching Dancing with the Stars, I got lonely. I turned to my tried and true method of meeting people... online dating... because it's been so very successful in the past. I sent a cutie a little message, and I put my phone down, content with myself for the valiant effort that I had made in the dating world. Because our generation is a really freaky,l nearly voyeuristic one, obsessed with knowing as much information as possible, this site tells you how far you are from one another. Originally, it said 2 miles away, but after it refreshed, it said 1 mile. I thought that was kind of strange, but sometimes the GPS is off a bit. I looked back down and it said .5 miles away... it started to feel eerie. At this point, I picked up my phone and held it, waiting to see if my interest-turned-stalker was getting any closer. After refreshing again, the distance had updated to 300 feet away--guys, that's a football field. At this point, I was convinced that my killer could see me. I wasn't sure what to do because the only thing around me to kill someone was a remote, a large potted plant, and a stack of bills. In short, I was the black guy in every slasher movie. I was the opposite of Jennifer Lopez in Enough. All I had done was send a message to someone on a dating website, and in the course of 15 minutes, I was convinced that I was staring death in the face.
The phone refreshed one more time: 17 feet. This was it. My front door opened and my roommate walked through and behind him was a familiar face. The same face that I was looking at and refreshing just seconds before. He said, "Hey man! Glad you're down here... I have a friend I want you to meet." I didn't catch a name because at that point, I started laughing... and not in the, "laugh along with me kind of way," but in the, "I'm sorry I laughed at your cat's elaborate funeral" kind of way. I introduced myself and then put together what I was wearing: white gym shorts with a hot sauce stain on them from dinner and a t-shirt with a hole in the armpit. At this point, I was out of control. I was laughing to the point that I was occasionally snorting as they looked on at me like I had some kind of social disorder (which, in all honesty, I may... but that's neither here nor there). Eventually, they went upstairs and didn't come back down for the rest of the night. When I went upstairs, the door was closed and the light was off, but in all of my laughter, I didn't put together what that meant; it wasn't until the next day that I realized that I had lost my online venture before it even started. But, for now at least, I had my life.
So, there may not be any dogs down the street named after prescription pain killers, and no one has gotten their windows busted in, but that's not to say that nothing happens in the suburbs. The lease has barely started, and I'm not convinced that the woman next door isn't housing someone in her basement or something. But in the mean time, I'll just sit on the couch with my pumpkin muffins and DVR shows that I would prefer the rest of the world didn't know I watched... and when I get lonely, I'll sift through the pictures on online dating sites considering which ones are secretly dating my roommate, which ones might be available, and which ones may actually show up at my door in an attempt to kill me.

Didn't We Almost Have It All?

I like to split my life into semesters because it's the easiest way I know how to turn my life into a television show. Each semester is representative of a season, and the breaks between class used to give me a break between each season, similar to the summer hiatus more television programs take. My life hardly fits into the semesterly format anymore, and in a year's time, semesters will cease to exist entirely. I have no idea how you split normal, everyday time into television seasons, but I'm sure once I'm faced with the issue, I'll find a way around it.
But in my television show, I alter the way I see things--no matter how boring or frustrating my life may get, I find a way to make it more entertaining or more dramatic in my mind. I make the frustrations mean something, even if they don't actually mean anything at all in reality. Some people would call that neurosis, but I tend to think it's just my way of constantly writing. I tend to make my life something I would rather see than what may actually be in front of me and because of that, I find no boredom in my life--every day is worth living to the fullest. The only problem with my method is when the lines between reality and my reality get blurred. And it happens to the best of us... the blurriness that is. It may not be a TV show in your mind, but we all have the things that we come to believe are true and they don't happen to particularly align with reality.

---

One of my favorite, most recent scenes that I play in my head happens every morning on the way to work. I recently found the song Underneath Your Beautiful, and I start it once I get off the escalator at the Metro Center subway stop.
If Shonda Rhimes has taught us anything about modern day television, it's that every powerful scene is best if accompanied by an equally powerful song. But as I transfer from Metro Center to Chinatown, the song grows in intensity, and once I get off the train and exit the turn stall and approach the summit of the final escalator, the song crescendos then grows silent. Sometimes I stop and watch the characters, slightly positioned cater-corner from the metro. There's the guy, and he says to the girl, I don't want to be your choice because you're not my choice. A choice means you have options--that there's a selection to choose from. A choice means that someone else matters enough to be considered. You're the only thing that matters to me. You were never just an option. And then he pauses, and they look into each other's eyes. I don't want to be your choice. And then I realize that I'm blocking the metro exit, and I wish that I knew how to screen write because that's good stuff. But I don't know how, and I'm now running forty-five seconds behind, so I walk on to work.

---

And that's when the perception is over. I may be the guy who has come up with multiple seasons of a fictional television dramedy, but I do understand when it's time to come back to the real world, and at times, it's a refreshing feeling. The image of the fake couple at the metro is perfect and eloquent and sweet, but it's just an image--at least for now. And when you can realize that it's just an image, it's almost as rewarding to be able to come back to reality and respect that story and that scene and those characters for what they were in the moment. It's similar to falling in love, or rather, falling out of it.

A little over a year ago, I was in love with being in love. I've come to believe it's a college senior year phenomenon as life is about to make a giant change, and if you can find something to place you in the moment, it may take your mind out of the future for a while. And it did, because for a while, I loved everything I was doing. I loved having someone to make out with, and I loved having someone to talk to. We had a song and inside jokes and mornings where we'd wake up in the same twin-sized college bed, and it really was amazing. And then it wasn't.

I've never been good at lying about important things, and once the new wore off, it became increasingly evident that the fairy tale I had produced in my mind was not what the reality seemed to be. But in too many cases, we waste time because we would rather believe that what we have is what we've come to perceive it as. So in the months before graduation, I tried to make it as fantastic as I wanted it to be. I knew what I wanted it to be, and more than that, I knew that I was the only one that wanted it that way. I was reaching for something that simply wasn't, and in a way, that's more painful than the whole thing being over. But then after too many walks and long conversations and disagreements about what the future might look like, I ended up sitting outside on a windy April unsure of exactly what I wanted to do. The conversation just wasn't happening--like, literally--it wasn't happening. So we sat there in silence for a while, and finally I said, I don't think we need to do this anymore. And there were tears, but for once, they weren't from me. I closed my eyes and leaned in for a final kiss because that's how all the best romances end, but when I opened them, I didn't really recognize the person that was sitting in front of me. And that was when I realized that I had fallen out of love. Or maybe more accurately, I had fallen out of love with trying to be in love. Like the image I see some mornings outside the metro, the love I had so strongly believed in had suddenly vanished once I realized how truly not there it was. It didn't mean that I didn't love the idea of it or love what I once believed was there. It was just the moment when you come to realize that a mirage is simply not tangible.
One of our greatest flaws as humans is the notion that we've ever understood what we need. In terms of the basics, I suppose we've gotten that down: the food, the water, the shelter bit. All of that seems pretty obvious. But where it gets complicated is when we try to figure out what will make us complete--you know, after the basics. It honestly doesn't take a lot to keep a human alive, but the struggle comes when we try and figure out what makes a human feel alive. And that's where we step in with our notions and presuppositions. It's just our normal reaction, even sometimes going so far as to try and make those decisions for others: an issue I had a year ago, and one that I've essentially imposed on a ton of fictitious characters. We try and make life what we think it should be with little regard to the idea that maybe life works itself out without our imposing hand.
But the learning process is difficult, so I stick with primarily forcing life decision on to the people who live in my head instead of the people who live... well... with me. I think, at least for me, part of it has to do with being impatient and the other part has to do with having control over something. Television is planned out beautifully, almost to the point that it's predictable. You have the season opener, then November sweeps, then February sweeps, and then the finale. You may not know exactly what's going to happen, but you have a pretty good feeling when it will happen. You have character development, and on the up and up, everyone can fall in love and experience the depths of life (with the aforementioned musical background). And as for my life? There's hardly anything scripted about it--it's about as close to reality TV as you can get. And when it doesn't follow script, all you can do is wait for the next scene and look back and say, Maybe it was never supposed to go that way at all.

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.

The Megabus Diaries: Vol. 1

10:20am
After a horrible morning of waking up and grabbing my bag that is safety pinned together, we headed to the bus station. I had a premonition this morning of children, and I immediately reconsidered even going. Our truck was a horrible combination of my morning hatred, Dad's worry about traveling, and Mom's awkward compensation for the high tense emotions by mentioning everything she sees out the window on the way there. After looking at the stop for fifteen minutes, we decided to part ways with Mom to wait at the stop like normal people. We found a woman and her daughter to mingle with, but they were obviously the wrong choice to sit with. You never want to sit with anyone that is too chatty, apparently. Upon boarding, we secured upper level seats in between the cast of a Tyler Perry movie and a woman with her... children.

11:40am
I regret publicly announcing my glee for The Golden Girls coming on the bus television. In some weird form of psychological punishment, the driver has decided to play us the entire first season of the show. After an hour, I had the slight urge to pee, so I decided to go inspect the facilities to see what I was working with. The children were blocking it, and the portly one announced to me that he threw up in it. I noticed drying chunks on the side of the door, and when I looked at him with my you're shitting me eyes, he gave me a coy smile, as if to say, I'm the child you saw in your vision. I will make sure he doesn't make it back on the bus when we stop next.

1:20pm
The girls are still on TV.

2:00pm
Freedom. We've finally made it to the rest stop. I was beginning to shake from my desperate longing for a cigarette, or a "nic fit" as I like to call them. The driver announced that we had "dirty minutes" to get back to the bus, which I can only assume has something to do with pornography. In unison, Dad and I announced our short term goals, Dude, I need a cigarette/I gotta go piss. After a couple seconds, I devised a plan; Wendell would wait in the Wendy's line, and I would smoke. We would tag team out for him to pee. At the smoking station, I met two friends: Chest Tattoo and Betty White. Chest Tattoo and I exchanged a knowing look and took deep inhales from our cigarettes as Betty White joined us to light up. Once I finished, I told Dad about my new friends. He responded, I bet the guy who did that woman's tattoo is probably named Lefty or Stubs or something. We made it back on the bus with about two dirty minutes remaining; The Golden Girls, Season 1, Disc 3 has officially been started.

3:20pm
We're picking up more passengers. I don't know who thought that was a good idea, but they're never going to know what happened on the first three discs of The Golden Girls. I'd be pissed.

3:45pm
One of the DVDs broke, and all the passengers looked up with hopeful eyes. I sat whispering, Please let it be Grey's Anatomy. Nope. The driver just skipped to the next disc in the season. One woman started crying. Dad announced to the bus, Oh! This is my favorite episode. Then I got a message on OKCupid, the highlight of my day so far... I really need to reevaluate my life.

5:20pm
We're all essentially catatonic. I'm beginning to believe that Jim Jones took this same approach to bring his followers together. Dad and I have allied with the woman that looks like Sally Field, the woman behind us, and possibly the token black guy. I haven't seen Tattoo Chest or Betty White (the smoker, not the actress... I see her every time I look up) in ages. I'm worried about them. Someone came up and said they were watching movies on the lower deck. In an emotional outburst, I offered that our deck stage a coup against the bottom one; the woman lied. They're in the same Golden Girls hell that we are. Oh, and I saw a Chick-Fil-A. I'll never forget, Dan Cathy.

6:45pm
Had a weird impulse to bite the kid's ear in front of me. I'm chocking it up to bath salts and boredom. However, in my delusional state, I have come up with a theory. Some seats have green lights over them and some have yellow. After surveying the bus, I've determined that the green lights are over people who have been "chosen," kind of like LOST. The other lights are over the lost souls. For the record, the vomit twins are sitting under a yellow light.

9:50pm
Sitting on the metro headed toward our ride so that we can see Batman... and the whole ride was so, so worth it. Golden Girls and all.

Pudding Tears

It takes a lot of work to be me. A lot of caffeine, and if it were legal, I'd probably dabble in narcotics. I realized it today at work; when in the public eye of society, I can be unusually positive... almost optimistic to a fault. I can essentially be called ugly and will respond with, "But at least I'm alive!" It's obnoxious, but it's what people have come to expect out of me. That's why every morning before I go to class or work, I drink a Monster energy drink and eat at least two Little Debbie cakes. The sugar delivers me to my audience in a way that they would want. I work for everyone in my life, and they'd be devastated to know the thoughts that circulate through my head as I wear a nearly creepy smile on my face. The thoughts are mean. Vindictive. Sometimes illegal. And the worse the thought, the bigger the smile, until I look nearly Asian because I'm smiling so hard that my eyes are squinted closed. Don't thank me for my upbeat behavior. Thank the bottling company that makes Monster. Before I got out of the car this morning, I sang to my Monster... Let me give your heart a break, let me give your heart a break, there's just so much you can take. And as I sang, I began to think about the semester that I drank so many Monsters that I was nearly confident that my heart would explode. That's how I anticipate my death will happen: caffeine induced accidental suicide. I imagine that it will be in the next four months, but the closest I've gotten yet was sophomore year.

Sophomore spring semester was my Marissa semester.

Sophomore year of college was a rough time for everyone. I was trying to balance about seven different major life events at once, and in the midst of it, trying to be more and more personable with each passing day. I was juggling a life of about seventeen different student organizations, the aftermath of my parents' recent marriage debacle, an unrequited love that could never be matched, keeping the biggest secret of my life, being an RA, 16 hours of class, pledging for a fraternity, and the dissolving of my close friend group. In response, I just kept drinking more and more energy drinks. I was doing fine for a while, but then I started to crack. My grades began slipping, and I eventually started to give up on everything. One of my favorite fall-outs was the day that I skipped all my classes to go to a private Ingrid Michaelson concert. I'm sure that sounds a lot less rebellious than I thought it was, but you don't understand. She's so complex and different, like me, so skipping class and meetings to see her was essentially the most badass thing that I could think of. When I was confronted by a staff member about skipping the entire day and what would later be referred to as my Dale Earnhardt semester (I was on top of my game, then I crashed hard in the turn), I responded, Okay. So? What are you going to do? Kick me out? Not my finest moment.
I could see myself deteriorating. I was spinning out of control, kind of like Marissa on The O.C. Actually, it's pretty much exactly like season two Marissa. The pseudo-bisexual relationship, the dabbling in drugs, the complete dismissal of authority and everything that mattered in life. One could even say that the events at the end of the semester were somewhat similar to her shooting Trey. Nothing was making sense anymore; no one understood me, but I looked fantastic throughout the entire year. Marissa would have been proud, but I'm not sure anyone else was.

If you really need to deal with life, take a
cup of refrigerated Swiss Miss. Add chocolate
covered nuts to it. Eat it and cry baby. Cry all
you want. You deserve it.

I remember the day that it all came crashing down, or at least one of them. I like to refer to it as "The Pudding Disaster of 2010." I was in the middle of my pledging process during Signature Week; it may be one of the most hellish things I've ever been through, because like most fraternities, it requires you to chase down your future brothers and do mostly pointless tasks for their approval. At the time, I was also running for Student Body President, regardless of my recent apathy for student organizations... actually, apathy for my life all together. I had just gotten the news that I had been elected, and I came back to campus from a fraternity meeting; it was super humid that day... one of those days that you can feel the moisture suffocating you, Othello style. Like most days during the week, I went into my boss, Aja's, apartment and plopped down on the couch. Most of the time, I stared blankly at the television or took a nap... which in retrospect was probably inappropriate, but whatevs. But on this day, the air condition was out in her living room, so I sat there recently anointed successful college politician and DKE brother, and Aja appeared from her kitchen. You want a pudding? All I could do was nod my head.
I had spent most of the semester with a giant knot in my throat, hoping at some point, I could muster up enough saline to cry, but alas... it hadn't happened. She handed me the pudding, and I put the first spoonful in my mouth and immediately looked up at her with tears in my eyes. All I could say is This pudding is so cold. And then I cried. And I kept crying. And I'm pretty sure I cried that night for almost two hours. The energy drinks and caffeine and everything else had ran out, and all I had left was pudding. In between heavy cries and crying hiccups, I would eat another cup of pudding until Aja ran out. I'm not sure what happened, but like most humans... it wasn't my fault. I still maintain that theory, and I refuse to admit that maybe... just maybe... I had let myself get out of control.
Eventually, I replaced the energy drinks with cigarettes, and when people tell me how expensive they are or how they give you cancer, I've trained myself to smile and say I know, it's a bad habit. But the reason that I puff, puff is because of the people in my life. Look at what they've done to me. They make me smoke a cigarette like an emphysema patient gasping for oxygen, which is kind of ironic because that's kind of where I'm heading. But we all have our roles; I just happen to be the eternal optimist running on excessive amounts of B12 vitamin boosts and nicotine. And in private, I come out of the pudding closet and cry myself to death while watching the episode of Grey's Anatomy when Denny dies. It doesn't make me less of a man; it makes life a little more bearable, you know?

Desperately Seeking Shooting Situation

I don't think I've ever wanted anyone to die. That's not how I roll; too much karma attached to that kind of wishful thinking. However, I have always had a killer desire (no pun intended) to find myself in a shooting situation. It dials back to when I was younger; sometimes, when I would be lying on the floor pretending to have passed out hoping that Casey would call an ambulance, I would imagine it was from a gun shot wound. It would always be in a non-vital place like my shoulder, or my leg, but I would imagine I had lost just enough blood that I would lose consciousness. My last words before rescue would always be profound and full of wisdom, like most middle schoolers are instilled with, and then I would pass out and wait for Casey to find me and freak out about the morbid jokes I would play on him.
Like most things in my life, I blame a great deal of my wishing for a shooting situation on television. I've made it a point to watch as many shows involving shootings so that I can become well-versed on typical shooting plot lines. Luckily, between my Mamaw Cora and my mom, I had all of the soap operas covered when I could be home during the week. In the later years when tv viewing was more liberal, I picked up Grey's Anatomy and One Tree Hill. I even made a personal exception and watched Desperate Housewives for the episode where Jackie from Roseanne guest starred and shot everyone in that supermarket. One day, when someone went postal in my own life, I would step up and be the Derek Shepherd or Keith Scott or whatever Felicity Huffman's character's name was. They all tried to talk down the shooter, and only one of them died from it. The odds were in my favor.
The idea has followed me around for years now. One boy that used to sit behind me in middle school was convicted for shooting a couple in some town an hour or so away. I thought of all the times that he kicked my chair and I nearly had an emotional orgasm just thinking that I could have been a target. I know he hated me, but I could have talked him down. I could have explained why it wasn't worth it, and I could have saved the entire school. Surely it would be adapted into a television special, and I was confident that Jonathan Taylor Thomas would play me.
I never wished for anything to happen while I was in high school because I knew the odds of someone bringing a gun to South-Doyle were abnormally high anyways. Between the thug nasties that lived by the river and the uncomfortable number of country folk that had access to shotguns (myself included), I'm actually kind of shocked that I didn't get a gun put in my face on a daily basis. I knew they were on campus; we all did. Too many people shot things in their free time for there not to be. I was honestly just waiting for the day that someone would whip that bad boy out. One day, a boy did bring a dismantled pistol to school to supposedly shoot his girlfriend, but I was sadly on route to a math competition. And honestly, we never were the premier public school of Knox County, but I did expect more than the thinking I'm going to bring a broken gun to shoot someone. Don't get me wrong; I'm happy nothing happened, but seriously...
One of the appeals of being a Resident Assistant in college was the idea that I would be right in the line of fire (yet again, no pun intended... just a terrible plethora of cliches). The idea seemed magical until one girl on campus starting posting a lot of Eminem lyrics and posting statuses about how she hated everyone. I mean, Eminem is no Marilyn Manson, but I was picking up on what she was selling. So, we started talking. I figured that the allure of talking her down sans gun was probably better than talking her down with gun in hand. Same results: less consequence. She told me everything was going to be okay because she was about to get a recording contract, so I just kind of left her be so that she could go be her Mariah Carey self. The next day, I told what I thought was an authority figure of the lyrics and the possibility to the response, "Oh, it's okay. She's transferring at the end of this semester." Sweet response, bro. That only gives her like two weeks to snipe campus. Thanks, brah.
The night after our conversation, social networks exploded with news of gunshots around campus. I thought to myself Damn it, Justin. You called it, and no one listened. No one ever listens to you, and somehow you are always right. Go. Go and fix this mess. So naturally, I went toward the sound of the gunshots. Accompanied by two of my favorite lesbians armed with air soft guns, we ran cross campus in the middle of the night. A police car stopped us and told us to get inside. Oh shit, I was right! There was a shooter held up in an apartment... off campus. Not a student. Well, kind of. We slinked back to our dorm, and for old times sake, I laid in the floor and pretended to be shot one more time. I, then, actually fell asleep and missed class the next day because of it. Close enough for me.
Some people tell me that my fascinations is an utter disrespect for human life. Some people have even told me that there's something wrong with me. But you see, I've never wanted anyone to die. That's just too sad. I have, though, really wanted a situation that would be suitable for a network prime-time season finale. I don't think it's too much for a young man to ask for a somewhat life-threatening situation that he can single handedly get under control. But until then, I'll just continue lying in my floor pretending to get shot, and when anyone walks in and asks what I'm doing (which has happened), I'll just stick to the regular response. I fell down. But we'll all know what's going on... I'll be rehearsing those final, poetic moments before the show goes off until September... or something like that.

Reasons I Decided Not to Accept My Open Invitation to The Illuminati

I'm going to say what's on all of our minds... I'm too nice. I know. I have a kind spirit and an old soul. I like befriending people that don't have friends, and on a fiscally prosperous day, you may even see me giving money to hobos on the street. I love puppies and babies. I like to see minorities succeed at things that only white people do. It's a blessing and a curse.

With that being said, sometimes I find that I extend my hand to people that probably aren't the most trustworthy individuals in the world. That's why a pretty respectable number of my fraternity brothers have slept with girls that I've openly confessed to being interested in. Most of the time, I count my losses and move on, but there's only been one time that befriending someone has led to me fearing for my and my family's life. The irony of it all is that it started in a little class that I like to call Children's Literature. There was a girl that kind of shied away from the rest of the class. I didn't want to see her lonely, so my friend Kasi and I began sitting with her. Soon, we would have our own inside jokes and would cling to each other when projects would come up, though her opinion on our topics were always a little more eccentric than what the rest of the class would do. I should have known something was up when she avidly campaigned for my "utopian/Atheistic" interpretation of The Giver. It made me so nervous that I felt guilty enough to pray to God later that night for even recognizing that a Godless interpretation could exist.
After the semester was over, Kasi and I began finding out odd things about this girl... like that she's wasn't 28 like she originally had said, but rather 36. We didn't think much about it; sometimes age can be an awkward thing for some people. Later we would find out that she fanatically supports the writings of Ayn Rand and Karl Marx, and to an extent, lives her life by them. Still, nothing too out of the ordinary. Kasi eventually distanced herself from the girl, but in true Justin spirit, I maintained contact. Eventually, I starting noticing an uncomfortable number of likes from her on Facebook. She began sending me incomprehensible messages about how we were to rise up against the government, which really startled me. Then it happened: my message came.
I was alerted of my participation in the Illuminati. From what the message said, I suppose it was never a choice that I was part of it, but currently "I did not know that I was." She told me that I would eventually have my kick (you know, like on Inception) and that we would all come back to campus so that we could all move on together (you know, like Lost). The whole thing began feeling really dangerous, but really fun at the same time because I've always enjoyed pop culture references, and I always longed to be in an exclusive group. (Oh, you didn't know? Check out Failed Attempts at Being in a Social Circle)
The whole debacle really climaxed when she changed her name to something Russian, started posting pictures of my best friend on a Vietnamese fansite for Communism, and was found in the campus chapel at three in the morning screaming about being chased by the man. Eventually, she would contact me and ask me to meet her at a driving range across the street from my house. I turned her name into the authorities and started watching over my shoulder. Sorry Illuminati. It was real.
One day, I'm sure I'll befriend a serial killer and get my head chopped off. I'm kind of mentally preparing for it every day. If that does indeed happen, I would like to say a couple things to some people.

• Mom, you really were the light of my life.
• Ashley, I'm pumped for your wedding, but I apologize for not responding to that nice card.
• Vandy, thanks for having my back, girl.
• Gabourey Sidibe, I was shocked to find out you were nominated in the Drama category of the Oscars. I swear, I thought Precious was a comedy. I don't apologize for it.

Yeah, I think that's it. And most of all, Anastasia, as I believe that's what you'd like to be called these days, I really am sorry that I declined your invitation to join the Illuminati. I'm also sorry we didn't meet for coffee less than a mile away from my parent's house. I'm mostly sorry that I'm not fluent in Arabic; I'm positive that's why I still don't understand half the messages you sent me. But I'll never be sorry for our friendship, even if it does leave me stranded in an internment camp one day.

Failed Attempts at Being in a Social Circle

I've wanted to belong to a group of friends for as long as I could remember. I want to go on fun adventures and have sitcom kind of days with them. I want it to be like Seinfeld, but less Jewish and more substantial... kind of like Friends. I always imagined that we would take hikes in the woods and take picnics places. We would all want to see the same movie, and sometimes, we would split up and talk about personal issues. Occasionally, one of us would date the other, but it wouldn't matter because we would all eventually end up in the same apartment, sharing cookies and watching the newest episode of Grey's Anatomy on the DVR that I don't have. It would be the life, and nothing would ever break us apart, at least until the series finale.

I first attempted this in middle school, which continued on through high school. I would try my damnedest to befriend the Sarahs. They were fun and active. Sometimes they would go over to each other's houses and watch movies together. There were approximately six people in the group, and I had known a good chunk of them for most of my life. They were the perfect group. However, I don't think I was ever subdivisiony enough for them. I always tried to fit in, but it didn't seem to happen. I decided to give up after I didn't make Yearbook my senior year, which they all were apart of. I will never forgive you Stephanie Crichton. You killed my Yearbook hopes and dreams.
Regardless, I am intrepid. I decided to continue on in college. Surely there would be a social circle that would want me. Surely I could fit in somewhere. This is the story of my journey to be accepted by an imaginary television cast: each with a made up name, each with a story.

The Smoker's Circle

I would continue in my pursuits of one of the Sarahs. She and I went to the same college, and surely, with me being one of the only people she knew, we would finally become friends. Yeah, she pitied me in high school and made some jokes at my expense, but this was new territory. This was our spin off. We could be best friends forever! In the later years, Sarah had become edgy. She smoked cigarettes, just like her roommate. Soon, they adopted a few other smokers and would soon be privately deemed "the smoker's circle." In total, there were seven of us. I would sit there, inhaling tons of secondhand smoke, hoping for a chance to succeed socially. We would talk about everything, though none of it was nearly as interesting as I hoped. Sometimes, they would blow smoke in my eyes because it was funny. Was I kind of like a cat or the baby of really irresponsible parents? I suppose. However, I belonged. Soon, once boredom had set in, members of our group began getting kicked out. First it was Julia. Then Nick. Once we had reached a final five, I was next for eviction. Later, the Smoker's Circle would all but break up with only Sarah and her roommate still in contact. I was friendless.

Ultimate fate: Failed.
Group members still in contact with: Nam.
Consolation prizes: An odd case of pink eye from smoke exposure.

The We


Honestly, this was my favorite group. They were deemed "The We" before I had joined, though none of them like to revisit the unofficial title. None of The We smoked, which came as great news to my healing eye. They liked to go and eat together and play video games. They accepted me with open arms, and I couldn't have been happier to join. One of my close friends joined soon after because she, too, had no other place to go. Her roommate was somewhat emotionally abusive, so we attempted to set her free. All was well with The We for the longest time, until I dated someone within the circle. I thought it was what I was supposed to do... just like Friends. Sadly, we were no Ross and Rachel. At the beginning of sophomore year, we all had began to feel the strain of a group divided. In the divorce, she got The We, and I got a very descriptive break up letter. Another perfect, yet forced, social group ripped from the grasps of a lonely boy. As of now, four of the five original We members are dating (not all together, this isn't Sister Wives, you know). Eventually, my ex-girlfriend also left The We. Kind of like the final episode of Will and Grace, I eventually reunited with them and decided not to be exclusive. We'll always have Super Dollar Magic Kingdom: the secret coke machine that we found that you could buy a Coke from and it would spit your dollar out ten minutes later. Consider it our "naked man in the window." I'm still not sure because of the reconnection if I would still be a character, but if I had to say, I'm most likely the Lisa Kudrow.

Ultimate fate: semi-successful
Group members still in contact with: Surprisingly all of them.
Consolation prizes: a break up letter, a semester of isolation, and pudding.

After a handful of attempts at social inclusion, I came to the conclusion that maybe I'm not supposed to be part of a social circle. Maybe the world is my social circle. (How is that for optimism in the face of adversity?) I would make one final attempt at a social circle later on, which sadly went unnamed. I announced that none of us would be friends after the summer and that the show would eventually be cancelled. For the most part, I was right. Social circles are complicated and not nearly as fun as it seems to be in the movies. There's a reason that there wasn't a sequel to The Breakfast Club. In the mean time, I sometimes watch reruns of Friends and imagine what it would have been like if everything had worked out the way that I planned.
At the end of the day, I think there's only one answer as to why inserting myself into a social circle never really worked out. I'm a maverick. Kind of like Sarah Palin or Bill O' Reilly. Maybe I'm too edgy or independent. I'm the kind of girl that likes to put pixie sticks on her once pastrami sandwich. I like to crunch it down with Cheerios and eat it as loudly as I can in the library. After that, I like to walk across the football field, fist thrust high into the air and know that for that one day, I did my part. Or something like that.

Reality Television Is Why No One Wants To Be My Friend

My family started watching Survivor after the first season. My dad didn't like that Richard Hatch walked around naked. Said that qualified him as gay, which is why I think I have personal issues with being naked in front of other people. However, we picked the series up in season two. Because my family is competitive by nature, we picked our favorite contestant and you were literally damned to Hell if you decided to change your pick halfway through. We were so dedicated to watching it that when we got our doublewide moved in, the only things we had moved in our first night were pillows, blankets, and our television. My pick was Tina Wesson, a hometown hero of mine from Knoxville. Dad chose Colby, and Momma chose someone who didn't make it past week three. If your pick lost, you were subjected to constant humiliation until the next season came on. Tina Wesson was the only reality television star I chose that ever went on to win, and that's why I nervously approached her in a Maryville Chili's a couple years ago to thank her for everything she had done in Australia during her stint on Survivor. I decided to return back to my table once I started crying.

My girl, Tina.

In response to this fascination with reality television and my natural desire to perfect anything I do, I began comparing my life to a reality television show at a very early age. I would spend extra time packing my books up in Mrs. Brown's class, watching each student file out the door. I would imagine each of them being voted off as I became the last student standing in our English class. In high school, I would run to my car, pulling along my brother screaming, "This is the final stretch, Casey! We're almost there." I don't think he ever understood what was going on, but if we didn't get in my Jeep and get pulled out in time, I was convinced that we were trapped in the traffic of Mumbai and that we would never win that daily installment of The Amazing Race. On slow days, I would respond, "Look what you've done to us, Casey." In retrospect, I feel like there's a lot that I should apologize to Casey for. Most of my reality television antics were secret. No one besides Casey would ever know about them, and I would patiently await the day that I would turn eighteen so that I could apply to be on Survivor/Big Brother/The Amazing Race. Past any aspirations of a professional career, I wanted to be famous for outwitting, outplaying, and outlasting fifteen other Americans.
It was never a problem until I casually signed up for a ballroom dancing class my last semester of college. It was supposed to be innocent; it was supposed to be fun. But, I should have known better. As an avid Dancing with the Stars fan, I wanted a partner that was committed and experienced. After my original partner dropped out, I inherited Rachel: a dancer with five years of experience and a current dance team member. Jackpot. I would win the first season of Maryville's Dancing With the Stars if my life depended on it. My religious watching had paid off. I understood how pivotal posture was; you would never find me carelessly stomping around the dance floor, I know that's right. After an assessment of my skills. I needed to evaluate my competition.

That's me.

In my weird, alternate world, the odds were stacked against me. Most of the freshmen in the class had some kind of dance experience. My simple deductions of form and grace were nothing in comparison. Some of these people had taken ballroom dancing before: the Jennifer Greys of the class, as I would privately refer to them in my head. I knew that I had to bring a lot to the table in this room of (pretty much) professionals. In the face of adversity, I still considered myself the Nicole Scherzinger of our dance class. I didn't have a lot of expertise, but I did have my Pussycat Dolls days... and by that, I mean that I sometimes practiced steps that I learned offline while I was alone in my room (what? who said that?). With my basic understanding, I considered myself practically a natural.
Weeks went by: we learned to swing, salsa, cha cha, and waltz. Once tango week came, I knew that this was my moment. If I could bring anything to the table, it was attitude-- the same attitude that I would use when I secretly played my other reality television games. Because I'm a giant and my partner is seventeen feet tall, we could magically do cortes and dips unlike any other. We were set to go to the finals... we could win the mirror ball trophy... that didn't exist. After class, we would secretly practice lifts, and during class, certain songs would come on and I would tell Rachel, "Let's do this." We would spin around the class as I shot what I thought were intimidating glances at my fellow competitors. But like most compelling reality television shows, there was a twist. Our dreams (well, my dreams) were almost shattered: an injury had occurred. At the hand of a poorly executed lift/intramural softball incident, I had fractured my wrist. It was the week before our host/professor was to announce the top four couples (and by top four, I mean the four with the best attendance who seemed to not totally mess up the steps). After being put on top four probation, I had to preform the next week sans wrist brace to prove I was ready. We were in the top four.

The odds were as such in my head:
Team Black-- 10:1
Team White-- 12:1
Team Green-- 8:1(That's my team, naturally.)
Team Orange-- 15:1

In our final week, we preformed a nearly flawless routine, gaining five perfect 40s with only two points deducted because of poor leading (and I whipped myself for that, DaVinci Code style). In my mind, we were champions. What did it all amount to? I'm not really sure. At this point, I don't know what reality television show I'm in, but you can rest assured, I'm in one. Maybe Real World: DC or possibly a really country version of The Osbournes, but if I know anything for certain, it's that this obsession with turning my life into a television show has had to cost me at least a couple friendships... but I'll stand by my philosophy: you don't come to make friends; you come to play the game.