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.

Private School Student at a State School Party

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brandi. Damn it. Did it again.

I Was Never Good at Gym

I hated middle school gym class more than anything in the world. I was always more of an academic, especially in the awkward years of middle school when I weighed the same at 5'6 that I do now. I was a bit of a butterball with a confidence complex and a complete distaste for anything too physical. More than anything, there was nothing worse about every Monday, Wednesday, and Red Friday (because South-Doyle put an alternating degree of importance on physical education and music) than the idea of going into the boys' locker room. I wasn't popular with the guys in elementary school; I always sat at the girls' table, so I didn't have a lot of hope for middle school. I wasn't going to chance it by going into that locker room. Anything could happen in there. Once, I heard someone even got "pantsed." I couldn't handle that kind of humiliation. Not then.
Luckily, after voicing the concern to my mom that we had to dress out for each day of gym, Momma and I came to a crafty conclusion. You see, students didn't have to dress out if they came to gym in athletic shorts or active wear, in general. Thus began my five year stint with windbreakers. Windbreakers are kind of like track suits... not the classy velour ones that old women and mob wives wear, but rather the plasticky ones that make a powerful swishing noise as you walk down the hallway. Obviously, this would remedy the changing in the locker room problem; however, this did nothing for my popularity points. If I had approached Regina George's table in the lunchroom, I would have been met with a startling, "YOU CAN'T SIT WITH US!"
There was only two defining moments that I would choose to sum up my three years as a middle school athlete. It happened in the eighth grade. I honestly try to block out the first two years because nothing really remarkable happened... or at least nothing that would present me in a positive light. Middle school is a mean place: a mean place that makes you do mean tasks, as if it's society's way of testing you to see if you can handle the real world. In my twenty-two years of life, I can't remember a time when I thought that life was any harder than middle school. In my first two years of gym, the only two things that were determined was that I could run a mile in 14:48 (which was a bold 12 seconds shy of the time you had to meet to pass the class) and that I was allegedly homosexual. In a surprising turn of events, one boy in my class used my high voice and unbridled fear of the locker room against me. Touche, determined sixth grader. Touche. However, my two shining moments were the small glimmers of hope that the South-Doyle Middle School gym offered me: good alphabetical placement and an opportunity to be the men's volleyball manager/second-string player/water boy.
Finally, after Jimmy King moved to a different school, I got the chance to sit next to Megan Johnson. We had an off and on romance since probably fifth grade, and by "off and on romance," I mean that I had a giant crush on her and would sometimes stare at her in class when she wasn't looking. Actually, now that I think back to it, my budding relationship with her was kind of creepy. I really couldn't help myself though. She was everything I wanted in a girl. Independent. Rebellious. I mean, at 14, she had her hardship license and smoked Clove cigarettes for God's sake. Megan, if you ever read this, I loved you a lot, and that love was super real. Also, if you could let me know where you got those Clove cigarettes, you'd be a gem. She was my eighth grade gym class thrill.
As far as the volleyball stint, there's actually not a lot to say. I just tell people that I was part of the men's volleyball team and ride out that semi-athletic dream boat as far as I can. It was pretty exciting, kind of being on a sport's team, and it helped me realize that I really, really didn't like the word "pussy," which was apparently the team's favorite word that year. I don't know why, but I do remember it being said a lot.
Maybe those two shining moments weren't so shiny after all; maybe I use those moments in the same way that clingy ex-girlfriends do in an attempt to turn a trainwreck of a situation into something kind of okay. Either way, I survived (barely) middle school gym class, though I didn't officially retire my windbreaker, jacker and pants, until my junior year of high school. Public school is hard, especially when you're shaped like an eggplant. That's why the future happens I suppose; once I hit my growth spurt, everything changed. My weight kind of evened out, I went to college where academia meant much more, and the only physical activity I've had to do was a class in fly fishing and ballroom dance. Just like the commercial says, it gets better.

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

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

To Whom It May Concern:

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

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

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

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

Cordially,
Justin

Standing in the Broom Closet, or "The Beginning"

I'm moving to Washington D.C. in the fall, actually, more like August. As my parents cannot afford a 4,000 dollar a month apartment in North Carolina (cough, cough, Lindsay... we'll discuss you later), I have to make my dollars elsewhere. As I was determining how I would apply my double major of Communications and English Literature, I narrowed my options down to three potential employers: Pilot Gas Station, Jack Flap's Country Cooking, or Big Mike's Cafe. Sadly, I found out that Jack Flap's closed its business down today; as I told a friend earlier, "When God closes one sketchy pancake joint, he opens another." There was no need to fear. I was working as the new cook/waiter/bus boy/mascot/sign maker at Big Mike's Cafe, and by working, I mean that in the loosest way possible.

In this economic crisis, Big Mike's doesn't seem to be benefiting from too many customers. I want to work. I would like to believe that I'm helpful, but I know that I'm the tallest obstruction in a kitchen area made for .75 of me. So instead of casually leaning against the grill area, I've found the broom closet. I spend a good majority of my three to four hour shifts standing in the there, counting aprons in the dark or turning all of the disinfectant bottles "label-forward." When someone eventually finds me and asks what I'm doing, I always respond with, "Oh, you know, looking for rags." No one ever seems to question it because I'm pretty sure they know I'm lying. I think it's a little game we play, probably titled "How Long Does It Take To Realize Justin's In The Closet?" or HLDITTRJITC from here on out.

It's similar to the game I play with them called "Making Up Personal Details About My Life." I wouldn't say that I'm a compulsive liar... just more of an experienced fabricator. I think it probably dates back to middle school when my brother and I were allowed to stay home alone for the first time. Occasionally, I would lay in the floor and pretend that I had passed out or fallen to see if Casey would call an ambulance; he never did, but it did freak him out a lot. Eventually, it led to more elaborate lies, or yarns as I like to call them, including but not limited to the time that I told my entire Children's Literature class that I personally knew Judy Blume and that she would be coming to speak to our class. Attached is the email correspondence between Ms. Blume and myself, detailing the situation. It wasn't my best moment, but it was a moment.

But the important part was the closet; let's get back to that. I was standing in the closet, running out of things to inflict my clinical OCD on, and I began to think. How is it that I ended up in this closet? How is it that I always seem to end up in these weird places with these weird stories that seem to happen to no one else?

That's me, in the dashing blue and gray sweater.

In this installment of HLDITTRJITC, the employees of Big Mike's Cafe were losing especially hard because I must have been in there for a good twenty minutes backtracking my life and evaluating all of the weird things that have happened to me over the years. The first really weird place I could remember was the first stall of the boy's restroom at New Hopewell Elementary School. Actually, a lot of weird stuff happened in that bathroom, but we don't have time for all of that. On this day, I was in there with Momma because I had just thrown up all of the rainbow line in the hallway. No one was surprised; this was practically a daily occurrence. My early-onset separation issues, paired with my mom's desire for me to pursue education, eventually led to me crying so much that I would vomit in the hallway on cue, between 7:30 and 7:48 in the morning. Because of this, I was Amy-Winehouse-skinny up until about the 4th grade. On this particular day, I had vommed so hard that my eyes were bloodshot and I was dangerously close to what I had hoped would happen for months and months: Momma was going to take me home. But it didn't happen. As we stood there in the boy's bathroom, my mom took a brown paper towel and wiped off the remains of french toast and regret and looked me in the eyes and said, "Justin, you are special..." there was a really long pause that followed, "...but this has got to stop." Ultimately, I didn't stop regularly throwing up in elementary school until around 2nd grade, but there was something about her words that stuck with me. Being in the boy's bathroom with Momma made me special, or at least that's how I understood it.

As I left the broom closet today, claiming yet another victory in HLDITTRJITC, I kind of wanted to throw up again... probably out of habit... but I didn't. I had realized that I had a whole collection of special stories, and some of them even included me not throwing up. I was in that closet for a reason.

I don't know if I'll even make it in D.C. It's honestly a crap shoot. Somehow, I was admitted to Georgetown to study public relations, but if they're willing to have me, then it's a risk I'm willing to take.  Regardless of what degrees I obtain [or attempt to obtain], I will always be that boy that throws up on himself after breakfast. That little boy used to be embarrassed by his faults, but as an adult, I carry that throw up around proudly because that vomit makes me special. Today, I vowed to never stop going into the closet and to never, ever stop proudly throwing up on myself. That's adulthood: maturity personified, even.