…About Lists

First thing on my preachy to-do list… write preachy to-do list.

One of my favorite forms of self-obsessed, preachy blogging is the list. Fifteen things a stranger learned about something somewhere that will be beneficial to you because they lived through it and you’re reading it. They are my favorite kind backdoor brags and underhanded advice.

Who the hell is this person to tell me the twenty-five things I need to know to survive college? Law school?  Love? The real world? What makes them anymore informed than I am? I’m clever. I learned things from life! Sometimes I do stuff and people say things about it. That must mean I’m an expert.

So I’ve complied a list of things I’ve learned (or just remembered) in the past five weeks that you probably already know because it’s all common sense but will still be impressed by because of the way it’s written and ordered.


  1. If you expect anyone to listen to your bullshit problems then you better be ready when that person comes to you with something earth shattering and equally mundane as anything you ever needed to complain about. Your problems are not the most important thing in the world. The homeless, the sick, the hungry, and the homosexual — Their problems are the most important thing in the world right now. So unless you fall into one of those categories you better expect to put up with all of your friend’s first world problems they way we put up with yours.
  2. The permanent record we used to mock as children has come back in full force. Everything you do on the internet is stuck with you for the rest of your life. In forty years someone will remember the hateful things you’ve written on the web. Chances are they will probably even have a copy of it. I’m ready to walk into a job interview and for my potential boss to hand me this list and say, “You know Jonothon, I don’t really agree with number five.” Am I prepared to handle that? Yes. Will you be prepared to defend your ridiculous political views and hateful, bigoted opinions? For your sake I sure hope so.
  3. If there is anything movies like Mean Girls or television shows like Pretty Little Liars and Gossip Girl have taught us it’s that no one keeps secrets anymore. This is the society we live in. You can live update your life via the web. Twitter, Instagram, Facebook. Information is available to everyone at all times even if it’s only meant for a few. Moral of the story? Don’t write hateful things in a burn book, make sure the people you accidentally kill are really dead, and be wary of an internet gossip who writes things about you and your affluent friends …Or just be careful of what you tell certain people.
  4. The short attention span runs our society with an iron fist. Commercials are mere seconds long. We confine our lives to short updates of 140 characters or less. We’ve even taken the movie and television show and shortened it to “Webisodes” to hold our attention. But this idea is the most evident in the alliances we form. Not even our closest friends can keep our interest. We become bored so easily that we are forced to move on to someone new and more exciting. Forget the people who’ve had your back. Forget those who stood up for you when you needed it. The guy you just met last week is clearly the most important person in your circle of friends. Right? Maybe not. But the The people who had your back yesterday may not have your back today. Always be cognizant of who your true friends are.
  5. The homosexuals fight for equality has convinced everyone they are experts on the gay community. Everyone flaunts their gaydar like they got it half-off at Tiffany’s. If you’re struggling with your sexuality and you think people don’t already know you’re gay then you are sadly mistaken. Someone knows. People are talking about it. And I promise no one is surprised. We’re all sitting around waiting for you to come to terms with it so we can support you, take you shopping, and get you laid. I swear.
  6. As you grow older you may think you’ve outgrown certain things or activities. You haven’t. You simply appreciate them from a different perspective. You’ll always look at the people older than you are with admiration and you’ll always look at those younger than you with contempt. I like to think this feeling follows us for our entire life.
  7. There are people who will throw you under the bus every chance you get. If someone heard you say it or saw you do it they are going to damn well ensure you get blamed for it whether they are your friend or your enemy. Adding negative or judgmental comments to a conversation about a specific person is just as bad as starting the conversation itself. Stay out of gossip. It will come back to haunt you. Drama is to an undergrad what useless crap is to a hoarder: Something that may seem important at the time, but really turns out to be just another piece of clutter that leaves little room for anything else.
  8. “We should not be eating all we can eat. We’re not bears.” – Ellen Degeneres
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… About Growing Up

Call me Gramps. Everyone else does.

I pledged when I was twenty-two. A dead end job at The Happiest Place on Earth and a late start to college put me years behind other people my age. I knew when I transferred from community college to a real university I wanted to truly live the life of an undergrad. I was, after all, living in a college town. So I adopted the mantra that age was nothing but a number and set off on my journey.

It lasted about a week before my pledge brothers caught on and decided to call me “Gramps.”

To this day there are still people who don’t even know my real name.

What started as a term of endearment bestowed upon me by my fraternity has become a signifier of my age and a constant reminder that when it all boils down to it a couple of years really is a big difference.

I’m twenty-six living in a place where the average age is eighteen and the average maturity level is twelve. People hear my age and think I’m only one prostate exam away from assisted living. Undergrads give me a quick up down, put on their best surprised face, and with just the right amount of condescension they smile.

“I would have never guessed you’re so old.

I would shrug, explain my situation, and continue on always telling myself it was fine, but always secretly wondering if I was too old for that world.

Did you know the freshman coming into college now graduated high school seven years after I did? No? Well I do. I remind myself daily on the long haul across campus on my way to class. I think about it when I see them stomping from one building to the next on campus tours. I feel it. In my bones, in my soul, in my heart. I feel old all over.

I remember what it was to be eighteen years old. Maybe not on this level, but I like to think I was as adventurous as these children.

I feel like a parent. I look at these kids who are younger than me, even the ones who are only younger by a few years, and I am filled with wonder, disbelief, disappointment, and awe. While these kids brandish their invincibility and the belief they’ll live forever I’m keenly aware of how limited time is.

This place has aged me like you wouldn’t believe.

A few weeks ago I wrote about the worst road trip I’d ever taken to a fraternity party half-away across the state. I posted the entry and my friends seemed to enjoy it. People I’d only met a few times were posting it on their Facebook page and sharing it with the world.

The first comment I received was never approved. A person hiding behind the anonymity of the internet (likely someone I know) said something along the lines of “Why are you twenty-six still going to fraternities parties?”

I considered what I’d say in my defense. I finally decided that I would come back with, “I took time off after high school. In college years I’m a junior with a lot of time to make up for.”

I only felt worse.

I’ve thought some pretty terrible things about my predicament and trying to maintain a social life in a college town. It’s hard to be your age when the only people around to be social with are so much younger.

I’ve been called so many things for being the oldest guy in the room. Sometimes by strangers and sometimes by friends. You can call me sad and pathetic for hanging out with kids younger than me. You can call me a loser for being a grad student at my alma mater and trying to maintain a healthy relationship with my brothers. You can call me worthless for my weird obligation to take care of these kids as though I were an older brother.

Or… you can just call me “Gramps.”

Because at this point I honestly can’t decide what’s worse.

My glory days were short lived and I’m already struggling to put them behind me.

I realize it’s time for me to grow up.

And above all else I’ve gotta get some friends my own age.

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…About Being the Token

I was a homosexual once.

It was a glorious time defined by the excessive use of the words “tranny” and “fierce”; my inability to refer to men by any pronoun other than “she”; and a bounce in my step that kept my hips beveled and my wrists limp. For all intents and purposes I still very much identify as a gay man. Though I’m not the sassy, flamboyant, Cher loving, cartoonish, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy gay I once was.

At some point between the awkward moment of coming out, working for the gayest company in existence, and dressing in drag for charity I realized that not all gay men want to flaunt their sexuality around like they got it half-off at Neiman Marcus. I wasn’t unhappy by any means. I was perfectly content parading myself around with a cock in one hand and an original Broadway cast recording in the other, but unlike so many other members of my community I realized I couldn’t allow myself to be defined by my sexuality.

Homosexuality to me is like black to Tyra Banks. Necessary is certain social circles, but most of the time just a reminder that some of the outrageous shit I say can be easily justified without repercussions.

Regardless of sexual orientation, race, or creed I knew that no matter who looked at me they would only see the homosexual and stereotypes I loved to perpetuate in lieu of the person underneath. So I conformed. I can turn it on and off like a faucet. I became a person who found solace in being able to both walk among the breeders and let out my inner queen at the clack of a stiletto.  In time the more feminine characteristics fell to the wayside and eventually I did away with them all together. It was at this point I did the unthinkable.

What, what, what are you doing being friends with only straight boys?! | Sassy Gay Friend courtesy of The Second City Network.

I pledged a fraternity.

Our worlds didn’t entirely mesh, but we found common ground in allowing them to coincide. Despite this all at once I was back to square one. In a world built on heterosexual ideals and homoeroticism they just didn’t understand the faggot in the room. Likewise I wasn’t always up to speed with the inner workings of their world either. How strange it is to stand in a room radiating with sexuality that you are neither attracted to nor that you understand.

So now I attempt to understand it all the while wishing I just had someone to go to the club with. Being the token homosexual is gratifying and awful. Seriously… It’s their world and I’m just a gay trying to bust a nut, so what’s up?

I really need gay friends.

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…About Stranger Danger

I’m terrible at a lot of things. Sports, celebrity impersonations, sharpening pencils, sex. Out of all these things there is nothing that I’m worse at than meeting new people. It is terrifying. I would rather do my best Bill Cosby while simultaneously sharpening a pencil and throwing a football mid-coitus. I would be better at that than making new friends.

I did not make this. I found it on a school website which played pirate music and was written entirely in Comic Sans. Obviously they should be afraid of strangers.

This anxiety emerged after a horrible childhood experience which involved a man trying to befriend me over a small bag of candy. Here you only thought that happened in PSAs. I’m here to tell you it’s happening in real life and ruining children’s ability to make friends on a day-to-day basis.

I can never look at Smarties the same way again.

Despite my brash nature I am actually intimidated by just about everyone. it’s not easy to just walk up to a stranger and strike up a conversation. People are wary. People are paranoid. People just don’t want to get stabbed or robbed or accosted for money or whatever it is strangers do when they approach random people in public. You try to talk to a stranger in public and chances you’re only moments away from a giant blast of pepper spray, all at once, right to the face.

For one of my first real assignments in my journalism class we were asked to go out into the community and make friends with strangers. We were expected to return with pitches for potential stories based on the people we met and the information we gathered from strangers. I’m sorry, but that sounds like the beginning of a serial killer movie.

The worst part is if it were a serial killer movie, who would be the killer? Likely the person asking complete strangers questions about their life.

Thanks Professor. Now I look like a serial killer.

Today in class when we discussed our experiences with the exercise I discovered my classmates had far less trouble with the assignment than I did. Maybe it’s their sunny disposition, but I really struggled. That’s when I realized maybe the problem isn’t the strangers I’m hustling for information. Maybe I’m the problem.

I do this thing I like to call “turtling.”

Anytime I encounter a stranger I turtle. I do it when I get asked for money by the homeless or charitable organizations. I do it when I get hit on by ugly guys at the bar. I do it when people make comments that make me uncomfortable. I do it to girls who think they’re my friend. I do it pretty much all the time.

Basically I raise my shoulders, pull my chin to my chest, and repeat the word no at varying levels until I’m shouting or the person goes away. Whichever comes first.

It never fails.

If you want a person to stop talking to you then you should try turtling out for yourself. If they persist pull your hands into fists, hold your arms out in front of you with your elbows at your side, and turn back and forth at the waist while you yell. They’ll think you’re crazy or imagining a game of “Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots.”

Either way you win.

In any case I realized that in most cases my lack of comfort is mirrored by the person I’m trying to befriend so that I can milk them for all they’re worth. Now I’m stuck trying to determine how I can get over my fear of strangers.

Why do I feel like this journalism thing is gonna be so much more difficult than I anticipated? I just want to know some stuff and not to get stabbed. That’s my goal.

And really that’s not a lofty goal.

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…About My #1 Fear

Everyone is afraid of something. Most common fears are spiders, snakes, heights, and crowded areas. Guests on Maury have confessed to irrational fears such as a fear of pickles, mustard, and cotton. Many people are scared of the dark, the dark is afraid of Chuck Norris, and the prolific Chuck Norris is afraid of himself.

I am afraid of primates.

Chris Griffin and I share a common enemy. | Family Guy. Photo courtesy of Fox

Gorillas, apes, monkeys, chimps, orangutans. They are hands down the most terrifying thing on the planet. The thought that humans evolved from these creatures makes me want to have a panic attack. Excuse me while I watch the scene where King Kong falls to his death to cure my growing dread.

It started at a young age. Growing up in Georgia my mother and I made frequent trips to Zoo Atlanta. One fateful day would change the rest of my life. At the time Zoo Atlanta was known for its most famous inhabitant, a silverback gorilla named Willie B. He was one famous gorilla. No King Kong, but on an Atlanta scale definitely a Mighty Joe Young.

My mom and I were standing just beyond the gorilla pit. It was a bight and sunny day. Not a cloud in the sky. The type of day I’ve come to associate with a feeling of sheer terror. At the time I was on her shoulders craning to see the apes over my mother’s mass of curly, blonde hair. As we moved from one point to the next my mom and I noticed that Willie B’s gaze followed us wherever we went. In fact, zookeepers also noticed his stare. They approached my mom and explained she had an admirerrer. Seems Ol’ Willie caught sight of the sun’s reflection off my mom’s mane of hair and was now King Konging the shit out of her.

Willie’s lustful eye was beginning to scare the shit out of me. My mother, the brilliant woman she is, decided to take me down into the viewing pit to see them up close hoping that it would calm me down. She set me down right in front of the glass and Willie approached. He stood opposite me for a few seconds eyeballing me through the window. That’s when it happened. All wild eyed and horny that crazy fuck bared his teeth and started screeching. He banged his fists against the glass.

I was five years old.

Twenty years later it’s a point of ridicule for most. They text me monkey photos or post National Geographic videos on my Facebook. Sometimes they ask, “Hey. Have you seen Rise of the Planet of the Apes?” to which I always respond, “Fuck you.” Once on a trip to the movies the trailer for Rise of the Planet of the Apes came on. I buried my face in a friend’s shoulder until it was finished. It was either that or a panic attack and I’ll be damned if I was gonna miss X-Men: First Class.

Rise of the Planet of the Apes is like my worst fear actualized on screen. Monkeys take over the world? Monkey apocalypse? Uhm. No. The reason I am so terrified of monkeys isn’t because I was nearly eaten by a gorilla as a child. It’s because monkeys have the capability of doing shit like what they do in Rise of the Planet of the Apes. Have you ever looked at one? Like really looked at one?

First chimp thinks he’s people and then someone’s face is getting gnawed off.

Let me describe a monkey. They have people hands, and people feet, and people faces, and they’re doing people things they have no fucking business doing. Things like learning sign language, peeling bananas, typing on computers, and starring in television shows. I’m telling you right now these little shits are keeping secrets and just waiting for the moment to stand up and be like, “Sup bitch?! We talk too! And we understand slang, bro! We’re the dominant species now, queer!”

Don’t believe me? Check out this Discovery News article about Santino. He’s a chimp in Sweden. Know what he’s doing? Concocting elaborate plots to attack humans! Yeah. Monkey apocalypse. What about Andrew Oberle? The poor Texas graduate student who was mauled by chimpanzees in South Africa? I feel so bad for him, but there is no way in hell I’d ever just walk near a fence full of pissed of chimps.

I’m serious here, guys. Stop worrying about bath salts and potential zombie attacks and start being more concerned about the chimp uprising.

I leave you with this. It’s the trailer for the soon to be documentary “Rise of the Planet of the Apes”. Watch it. Takes notes. Prepare the bunker.

I know I’ll be ready.

[youtube http://youtu.be/EbCoDf44oCE]

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…About The Worst Road Trip Ever

This story is true. All names have been changed to protect the innocent from association and the guilty from embarrassment.

Yesterday morning I cried at a McDonald’s in Tallahassee, FL. The tears were sparse, but the emotion was there. I was just so happy. Someone bought me a hamburger. This, as sad and pathetic as it may sound, was the single best moment of the worst Fourth of July of my life. And that’s saying something as I once shot bottle rockets out of the crack of my ass.

I hate spontaneity. Bad things don’t happen to people who plan. It’s just that simple. You can imagine my hesitation when a friend called me Tuesday afternoon and said, “Pack your shit. We going to Tallahassee.”

For those who don’t know Tallahassee is like a modern day communist Russia. No

How do you get an FSU cheerleader into your room? Grease the door and push.

foliage. Awkward smells. It’s nothing but bricks and sadness. It’s mostly Florida State’s fault, but us Floridians tend to overlook that due in part to pity over their subpar athletic program.

Myself and three other people were driving across the state to attend a fraternity party. A fraternity that I, along with one other guy, was not a part of. To top it off I’d be forced to pretend I was straight. I’d have to say things like “Point me to a big titty bitch” or “Aye! Where the squirters at?” to maintain the illusion.

Nothing is more difficult than pretending to be straight. Although when you get it right it’s like watching a dog walk on its hind legs. You shouldn’t care, but it’s just so impressive.

An hour and a half into night the party was shut down and three of us were sober. The guy behind the trip was blackout drunk stumbling around the house practically begging to get laid. Sad, right? Don’t worry. He only gets more pathetic. For that reason we left him for dead.

We all headed to the bar. Three hours and a trip to McDonald’s later we returned to find our drunk friend still going strong. Only he was exponentially more drunk. We all assumed he’d fall asleep the minute we left the house.

I’ve been 21 for almost five years now and the perseverance of drunk idiots still baffles me. They just won’t die.

Not only was he still awake but in the time we were gone he had gotten violent. Swinging on brothers, knocking drinks out of people’s hands, and now trying to fight each one of us. We got him under control long enough for him to disappear into his car and vomit all over himself.

At 3:30 A.M. after a long night of partying and diffusing bad situations we decided it was time to go home. The problem was that our vomit soaked friend had the keys. Or so we thought.

Some point between the time we left and the time we got back he had bombed his keys. Made a wish onto them and thrown them into the sky never to be seen again. We spent the next four hours searching for our only ticket home.

It was just like The Hangover except Doug was a pair of keys.

We never checked the roof. Hilarity did not ensue.

I’m pretty sure that hell is a never ending search for a lost pair of keys. Then once you find them you’re forced to watch Katy Perry: Part of Me 3D, but little do you know while you’re watching that piece of shit Satan hides your keys so once the movie’s over he’s like, “Oh! Gotta find your keys again!”

That. For all of eternity.

We never found them.

“Redneck Randal… you got into FSU?” “Wutttt? Like it’s hard?”

FSU is the Bermuda Triangle of colleges. You really don’t understand how bad it is unless you’ve been there. You go and lose things like happiness and your dignity. Your keys. Occasionally a football game. I mean look at it this way… I cried in a McDonald’s. The fucking place sucks.

Pop-A-Lock was kind enough to spend an additional four hours making a new key. As we sat and waited the anger only continued to grow inside all of us. By the time the sun rose it was three against one. So we packed our shit and declared, “You drunk fuck! This is your mess. Stew in it.”

This time we really did leave him for dead.

As we walked through the Florida State campus in the blistering heat we tried to figure out who would drive all that way to pick us up. Out of everyone we could think of the only person who would actually do it was the ex-girlfriend of one of the guys on the trip.

Let’s put it this way. It didn’t end well.

What could be more awkward? Riding back home with a guy who put you through hell for eight hours straight or riding back home in total silence with two people who are at each other’s throats? It’s a tough choice. Whatever the case may be his ex was on her way.

We went back to the McDonald’s where I had cried hours earlier. We sat nibbling on McGriddles barely able to keep our eyes open then all at once things started to come together. I sent our ride a pinpoint of our address only to discover we were sitting at 666 Tennessee Ave. Katy Perry’s “The One Who Got Away” was playing on the radio. Many of the customers were talking to themselves or reading the bible.

Maybe we were dead. Maybe we were in hell. Maybe it was like LOST. As fucked up as the situation was maybe Damon Lindelof wrote it. He does have a tendency to do things solely to piss people off.

Look is it so much to ask to have a good time? All I wanted to do was be American and do American things. Drink in excess. Blow shit up. Eat the kind of foods that make us the most obese nation in the world. Find a bald eagle, cut its head off, and fuck its neck. Is

Eagles. Bandanas. Tall hispanic men. America.

that so much? Did I set my standards too high?

I spent most of the day sleeping once I got back home. I missed all of my nation’s Independence Day. And for what? A mid-tier fraternity party at a bottom-tier state school? Oh well.

I guess you had to be there.

Go Gators.

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…About Coming Out

“The fact is, I’m gay”
– Anderson Cooper

I was eighteen when I came out of the closet. Anxious and afraid of the backlash I stood in front of my mother and confessed that I was a homosexual. Today, at the age of 45, Anderson Cooper came out of closet. Likely anxious and afraid of the backlash he stood in front of the world and confessed he was a homosexual. Sorry Anderson, but I’m gonna say to you the same thing my mom said to me when I came out: “Duh.”

It’s not my intention to undermine the courage and bravery behind Anderson Cooper’s admission. Anderson Cooper, along with many other public figures, continues to inspire and help foster the change so desperately needed in our society because of his willingness to stand out and be himself in the public eye. However my question, paralleled by similar reactions to his announcement, is pretty simple.

image via Telepictures

“What the hell took you so long?”

It’s a question that resonates strongly within my current niche. Frat boys on the down low are a dime a dozen and there’s always a new one rearranging the racks behind his closet door. I’ve seen numerous guys struggle with their sexual identity. I’ve seen them cower behind a picture of their torso on Grindr and hook up with any “masc” guy willing to keep a secret. All the while their brothers, their family, and their friends question their motives behind their back.

As we did for so long with Anderson Cooper they wonder to themselves, “Why doesn’t he just tell us? We already know.”

There’s no simple answer to that question. The world we live in is a strange place, but rest assured it’s no stranger than Narnia. After all you may be so deep in the closet you’re a citizen. We are all creatures of substance and we deserve to relish in who we truly are. I hope my closeted brethren can see what Anderson has done as a wonderful thing.

If not, I present one last push.

Jennifer Vanasco, journalist for the Huffington Post, wrote a beautiful piece titled “Why It Matters That Anderson Cooper Came Out As Gay” regarding the importance of Anderson’s statement. She writes, “Cooper’s statement is a reminder to all of us that coming out, no matter how ordinary it may seem to those of us on the other side of it, is still a risk, is still brave, is still courageous, and still matters. Bravo.”

So if you’re struggling with your sexuality I challenge you to take a risk, show your bravery, be courageous, and remind yourself that you matter. Because the fact is… we already know, we’re already on your side, and it can only get better from here.

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…About My $57,000 Mistake

I never wanted to be a lawyer. It’s a sad but unfortunate truth. This is the point as the reader where you’ll stop and think to yourself, “If you didn’t want to be a lawyer then why in the hell would you waste the time and money to go to law school?”

Well the answer isn’t simple, but my excuse is. I attribute my decision to go to law school to a useless degree, a dwindling economy, and a lack of better options coupled with the delusion of a powerful, high paying job. Basically it all boils down to one question: What in the hell was I supposed to do? I didn’t want to be a teacher or a janitor or a stripper or whatever it is people with English degrees do. i needed something with substance. I wanted recognition and power without really having to do anything to get it. Why not become a lawyer?

I’m a firm believer that nobody truly knows what their true purpose in life is until they’ve already found it. Anyone who pretends that they’ve got it all figured out will waste their entire life believing that. Those individuals deserve to fail on the principle of sheer arrogance alone. They’ll wander through life convinced that they’re happy, but they’ll always wonder what if?

Don’t worry, Elle. I understand your pain. | Legally Blonde. MGM. Dir: Robert Luketic

You know that old adage that the only reason people go to law school is because they have nothing better to do with their life? Well it’s 100% true. When you have little to no direction eventually even the most outlandish shit sounds like a good idea.

Sure I’d be joining the ranks of the most hated class of people in the world, but hey I was already living my day-to-day life as a vicious prick. Why not get paid for it? So that’s what I set out to do. Little did I know I set into motion a chain of events which would ultimately cause me to waste a year and ruin life as I knew it. (For the purpose of tension I’m making it sound far more dramatic than it really is. My life, that is. Not law school. Law school really is awful. I couldn’t really do it justice by even trying to put how awful it is into words.)

I made it seven months.

For the seven months as a law student an anonymous law school Twitter account ended up being my saving grace. I could vent and essentially say anything I wanted to without fear of repercussions. No one knew who I was or who I was talking about. I went to so much trouble to ensure that I never mentioned my school and that I made tweets vague enough so no one could see who I was tweeting about. Judging people cruelly has always been my favorite coping mechanism. I mean, really? Why take the time to acknowledge any of my own flaws and unhappiness when I can just point out the flaws in others for my own amusement?

1,300 followers later I got called into administration. Someone has turned me in. My peers feared reprisal on my anonymous Twitter account. Awe. You’re so vain. I bet you think this tweet is about you (It’s not. I don’t discriminate. I hate everyone). The only thing I enjoyed about law school had been compromised.

Since the start of the semester I had been looking for a way out. I wanted to escape. Finally, someone had given me a reason to do that. So I left.

No one is afforded the luxury of waking up fully aware of exactly what they should do with the rest of their life. We make decisions, we follow certain paths, and while sometimes the choices we make may not be the right ones; we learn from our mistakes.

You have to hope the decisions you make are right the first time you make them. It takes a strong person to do something and to do it unapologetically. It takes an even stronger person to know whether or not all that effort is worth it in the first place. Sleeping around, blogging or writing on Twitter, taking pride in yourself, going to professional school, or waking up and living your day to day life; Whatever it is that you’re doing just make sure you’re doing it for the right reasons or at the very least reasons you can live with.  When you no longer feel as though it’s the right choice then it is time to move on.

So on the day I begin graduate school and a new slew of hopefuls receive their LSAT scores I realize I don’t regret going to law school. I learned a lot. It taught me more about people and myself than anything about the legal system. Law school wasn’t a waste. As I write the book on my experiences during the seven months I was a 1L I realize my only reason for being there was to gain the insight I needed to write the book I’ve been waiting my whole life to finally write. It’s weird how fate works.

Moral of the story? (1) You can do anything you want as long as you have the passion to be doing it. If that passion dies you have to decide whether or not to stick it out or find something else. As they say, “when nothing else fits, pick up the pieces and move on”; (2) Don’t let the actions of others be a deciding factor in the decisions you make, but if sour situations are there to give you a push in the right direction then don’t view them in a negative light. Sometimes we need the bad to recognize there is so much good just within our reach; and (3) Be careful what you write on the internet, or at the very least… don’t get caught.

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…About Being H.W.P.

I, like most of America, am overweight. I’m not fat, but what I am is akin to a pair of popular shorts or a lonely man’s erection: Chubby. With the exception of a brief six months consisting of rigorous exercise and a diet made mostly of air back in 2007 I’ve always been chubby. I fall into this strange category where I’m too fat for the thin guys and too skinny for the fat guys, but still just the right size for raucous sex with everyone.

Basically I’m straight thin, but gay fat.

It’s depressing. I know.

Over the past nine years my weight has fluctuated from XXL to Manorexic then to H.W.P. (Height Weight Proportional).

The difference between myself and others is that I’m not unhappy with how I look. Many people have this preconceived notion that if you’re overweight you’re unhappy and self-conscious. Sure there are days when I feel like I’m gonna die alone because I’ve convinced myself no one could ever learn to love a blob like me, but those times pass and I get back to being awesome. I’m lazy and I’m perfectly content with that.

The way I see it is I’ll start working out when I stop getting laid.

The one thing in regards to weight that does make me unhappy is the judgment of your peers. In the world of the chubby kid there is no shortage of pretentious, self-righteous people and their bullshit lists telling you how to better yourself because they believe they’ve figured it all out.

Skinny chicks, former fat kids, people with abs. Whether you ask for it or not they always have something to say about their struggle and about what you should be doing. After all they’re the ones who know.

You can tell yourself not to listen and to convince yourself you’re happy with how you look, but it’s not always that easy. So I made my own pretentious, self-righteous list. This is the list of things I do to offset any negative thoughts I (or others) may have about my weight.

  • Sometimes I listen to the theme from The Biggest Loser while I eat
  • I like to watch the Food Network during the few times I do workout in the week
  • I frequently recreate the iconic photo of pregnant Demi Moore from the cover of Vanity Fair.
  • I check in on ex-boyfriends via Facebook while listening to sad 90’s pop music and eating whatever I can get my hands on.
  • I justify my trips to fast food restaurants like McDonald’s by reminding myself of the millions of people they employ and how my business is helping them maintain those jobs.
  • I occasionally go on hunger strikes for irrational reasons such as to recieve borrowed money from friends or for casting news from anticipated movies.
  • I enjoy perusing wedding/engagement photos while listening to classic love songs and eating fried foods.
  • I take photos where I appear to be fatter than I am and photoshop them until I am so skinny I’m almost recognizable.
  • I dance around in my underwear to artists who have had public battles with their weight.

You may say it sounds like I have serious emotional issues surrounding my weight and I would say that only 75% of that is true. So before you go making snap judgements I’ll let you guess what’s real and what isn’t.

Incidentally I’m worried this sounded too preachy. I think I’ll go eat until that feeling subsides.

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…About Vaginas

Vaginas are my number four fear. They rank somewhere between monkeys and the impending zombie apocalypse on the scale of “Irrational Things To Be Afraid Of”, but as far as I’m concerned they are still a viable threat.

There’s something about them. The way they secrete lubricant on their own… or produce children… or bleed occasionally… or swell. It’s the work of the devil and I’ll have no part of it. Nothing on earth should be able to do all those things on its own. It’s witchcraft.

It’s a vagina that ate Boba Fett, and it’ll eat you too if it gets the chance. | Episode VI: Return of the Jedi — Dir: Richard Marguand

This belief stems from early exposure to feminist theory and a total misreading of the movie Return of the Jedi.

I grew up believing vaginas held all the power. Once I was old enough to really understand that statement I would learn this was completely accurate and after joining a fraternity I would see just how accurate it was. Guys will do anything for them. Are they made of gold? No. Just flaps of skin bearing a close resemblance to a ham sandwich, but regardless girls don’t have to do shit. Guys will literally do whatever they can for girl just because they have a vagina. No living thing has held that much power since the Third Reich.

As someone who isn’t attracted to women in the first place it’s completely unnerving.

…And then I saw Teeth.

If you’re unfamiliar Teeth is the story of a girl who has teeth inside of her vagina. I’m going to let that marinate for just a second.

[youtube http://youtu.be/yH8yuld4DUE]

Yes! Just when you think things can’t get worse a screenwriter comes along and writes a movie about a killer sausage wallet. And then some movie producer thinks, “You know what… let’s some put money into this.”

Teeth did for vaginas what Stephen King’s IT did for clowns. I always thought in the back of my mind maybe I was being completely irrational. Heterosexuals around the world were okay with vaginas so maybe I should be too.  Now, because of that movie, I have a sixth sense for them. I’m like an animal before a storm. I just know when there’s a woman nearby. I can tell if she’s only wearing a towel or a bikini or underwear. My world is sent into a tailspin. Things quickly get upgraded to a threat level orange.

If you’re asking me…. kill it with fire.

And just when I had finally come to terms with my fear… I saw Prometheus. Because nothing is scarier than a snake with a vagina face.

It’s funny to me that there are groups out there boycotting things like gay marriage and abortion when really we should be boycotting the recent rise in vagina-related terror in the entertainment industry.

I’m going to start a group for people like me. My group will be called PACT.

People Against Coochie Terror. (Patent Pending)

Feel free to join. We’re always accepting members.

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