Wastin' Away Again

During my time in Key West I haven't been writing because I was under the impression that nothing was happening worth telling about. But when I sat down to write a short summary, I realized I couldn't have been more wrong. Here's an account, to the best of my recollection, of my time here so far...


I suppose the four years you spend in college are supposed to slowly prepare you for real/adult life. Keeping true to my typical style, I basically used those four years to do the exact opposite. Starting sophomore year, I began to quickly and violently withdraw from adult expectations and any notion of responsibilities, developing an attitude completely centered around the phrases “I don’t give a fuck” and “I need more wine.”  So during senior year as graduation and responsibilities began to run full speed toward me, I didn’t charge back, I didn’t run away, I just kind of side-stepped. There was a vague hint at a career opportunity for me that required little to no effort to grow into, so I just adopted it as my future. But then when college was finally becoming the past and I was entering the future, that sure-thing became unavailable. For a long time I blamed other people for it, saying that “my job” was given away, but in reality, I was just too comfortable in my “I don’t give a fuck” attitude and didn’t work hard enough to get what I wanted. So when I got the news, I was left completely futureless. I hadn’t set up any back-up plan, put no effort into internships or even job applications, so I was left to work a part-time, near-minimum wage job and do however little that income would let me. 

But then, as usual, my four-year state of mind took over and found another way out of living a real life. With a week and a half left until graduation, I handed in a resignation letter at the job I had grown to love in the past three years and bought a plane ticket to a place where I thought I would not only get by, but flourish, using only my attitude and good looks.

So less than two weeks after making this decision – two days after graduation – my life was packed up into boxes to be stored away and a shockingly small two suitcases that would be boarding the flight to my future: Key West, Florida.

When I got here I was interrogated by every person that I met about why I chose Key West. And the truth is, I didn’t actually choose it. If you read my Spring Break post, you’ll remember that basically any decisions that have to do with travel in my life are made by my best friend, and this was no different. She had been planning for a long time to retire to Key West after a hard 21 years at a job that left her listless and unmotivated: her life.  So, as I am almost always inclined to do, I followed her.

So here we were, graduates of one of the best universities in the country with degrees in acclaimed programs, with no money, no jobs and no home in the beginning of the slow season on an island that is closer to Cuba than it is to any major American city and any Walmart. This was already – and promising to continue to be –  a shenanigan unlike any other.

In the week-and-a-half that we had to plan before coming to Key West, we had researched housing and jobs and contacted at least 30 people advertising each, to basically no avail. So we immediately checked into a private room in a hostel and went to buy bikes, a seemingly perfect way to get around this tiny island. In the next few days, we applied for jobs and kept calling people about apartments. I interviewed twice at Ron Jon and once at Banana Republic and my friend immediately got a job at a dive shop, which is, in keeping to her own personal style, exactly what she had wanted. After the third night of relative luxury in a private room, it seemed like we were never going to find a place to live and we were quickly running out of money. On our fourth morning, we checked out of the hostel, stored our luggage/lives in a friend’s truck and set out on a job search again, expecting to have to come back to the dorm-style lodging of the hostel for the rest of our lives. We checked out a possibility that seemed to be our best bet, at least for the 15 days that we had until lease-beginning season started: a room no larger than a queen-sized bed in the back of a trailer owned by a couple who, between them, weighed 115 pounds and had three teeth. With basically no other options, we were willing to commit

Then we finally caught a break: a very nice apartment had a room open that we could probably afford. Yes, one room. One bed. We’re close friends.  It was this day that I decided that biking was NOT for me. After a four-mile bike ride to the opposite end of the island, we, drenched in sweat, signed a lease and were able to move in to the apartment that, at this point, seemed like heaven.

I got the job at Banana Republic, which was a perfect start. It was retail and part time, which would allow time for me to have another job, preferably as a cabana boy at a gay resort. Here’s where the problems started: I was hired to work stock, which was a shift that began at 7:30 am. Remember, I now lived four miles away from downtown and only had a bike. Oh, and it was almost June, meaning that temperatures were in the mid-90s, even at 6:45am when I had to leave my apartment in order to get to work on time.

After about a week and a half there, I was contacted by a Hyatt timeshare property who needed front desk agents. It was a full-time position and it was less than half a mile from my apartment. I really wanted that job.  After three separate interviews during which my dedication, people skills and personal style were questioned and challenged, I was offered the job and asked to start immediately.  I had never felt more proud of myself.  Before my first day, the front desk manager told me to wear khaki pants and a short-sleeved white button-up shirt.  After silently gagging, I explained that I do not in fact own a shirt like that, I convinced him to let me wear a long-sleeved one. My first day was full of information and paper signing. I never thought I would get the hang of it, but I slowly did. After about a week in, I was dressed in the Hyatt uniform (awful. Just awful.) and was trusted to work on my own.  The opening shift was rough because I had to be there at 6:45 and there always seemed to be something I forgot to do, but I was constantly praised by my supervisors on how quickly I learned and how skilled I became at the job.  But here’s the thing about a hotel job: there are two exciting times of the day: check-out in the morning and check-in in the afternoon.  Check-out usually goes smoothly except for the people who just never show up and you have to call their room and tell them that they were supposed to be out an hour ago. “Hi, this is Alex from the front desk. We have in our system that you were supposed to check out today at 10am. Would you like to make another reservation to stay longer?” “Ten? Check-out is at 11.” “No, it’s at 10.” “We’ll be there in 10 minutes.”  Check-in was rarely completely smooth, mostly because people always showed up at 1pm and demanded their room that is most definitely not going to be ready until 4. But luckily that was never my fault, so I just brushed it off and let them sulk and be angry.  But in between those times, I was left to stand for the whole eight hours in front of a computer that couldn’t access Facebook or Twitter. Oh, and answer the phone. So many needy people. One night at 10:45 pm (we close at 11), someone called and asked if we had dice. We did. They asked me to bring the dice to their room.  I drew the line and basically said “come get it yourself” and hung up.
After about a month at the Hyatt, I put myself in the market for a scooter. I found a cheap one that was ugly and almost definitely on its way to its demise, but I bought it. And with the freedom of a vehicle that I did not have to pedal, I began the search for a job that was more exciting and in a more exciting location.

I told my manager that I was searching for a part-time job (just in case that’s all I ended up with) and, after accepting a full-time position and writing a resignation letter, she asked me how the search was going. All I said was “I have to talk to you about that,” and she said “You took something full time. I thought you would.” They were very kind and I was thrilled to only have two more weeks of suffering before I started my new job at Artisans, a jewelry/houseware boutique in the middle of downtown.

My first few days at Artisans were long and full of information. I knew nothing about jewelry before getting there and, after my first few days of training, knew a lot of facts that I couldn’t quite connect to brand names. I just knew that I would never get the hang of it, so I had to let that job go before I hit the two-week mark.  When I told the assistant manager I was leaving (after formally meeting with the manager), she, like my last boss, said “I knew you were going to do that.” OK, so this WAS the third job I had quit in three months, but do I really seem that flakey?

I put in some applications around town, but wasn’t too stressed about getting another job too fast because I knew I still had my last Hyatt paycheck coming as well as my first and last from the jewelry store. Plus, one of my best friends was coming to visit and I figured being unemployed would be an easier way to spend time with her than to ask off from a job that I would have just been starting.

So my friend got here (with my car, thank god – my scooter was unreliable at best and could only hold so many groceries) and we had a blast. We paddle boarded, ate, drank, drank and drank. That’s pretty much all I remember from that weekend.

While my friend was here visiting, I got a phone call offering me a job that I had only turned in an application for and hadn’t interviewed for. When I called to take it, the manager was gone for the weekend, so I just showed up on the day that she asked me to and started from there. So that’s where I’m left. In the corner of a popular Key West bar/restaurant called Conch Republic. My first day there was one of the worst of my life, as I had been going out every single night and drinking probably a little more than I should have. I got there at 9am and by 9:15 I thought I was going to pass out. But I made it through the day and finished training. So several nights a week, I sit at a counter and tell 1,000 drunk people where the bathroom is, give change to servers and occasionally sell a tshirt or some hot sauce.

All this time while I was jumping jobs, we were in a constant fight with our landlord and the administration of our apartment complex. We had to pay $25 to park our bikes. Then $25 more to park scooters – they towed my roommate’s once while she had a temporary parking pass while she was waiting to get it registered. Both of us were followed by security on multiple occasions, one incident ending in the security guard following us all the way to our door, then banging on it and screaming that we don’t live here. The administration didn’t believe us. When it happened again we called the police and our landlord. The police didn’t care much and our landlord not only didn’t believe us, but also threatened to kick us out because we were “causing trouble.” Then the security had my scooter towed because they put a warning on it that it was “leaking oil” and that was just unacceptable. There was no oil where it was parked the first time I had the notice, so I ignored it. Then it was gone. There was no oil where it was parked before. Getting the scooter out of impound would cost not only more than what I paid for the scooter but also more than I’ve had in my bank account the entire time I’ve lived here, so I just said goodbye to it in my mind and left it there. I never told my landlord because I knew he’d just tell me I’m causing trouble. I’m happy to say that we’re getting out of the lease with him early. But not without a fight.

Also simultaneously, I was struggling to accept that the social scene that actually exists in Key West is much, much different than the one I had expected. I thought Key West would be full of young, beautiful, tan gay men, but instead it's full of washed-up drug addicts, 20-somethings who don't want to have a direction in life, bachelor/ette parties, frat guys, and, at one end of the main street, two bars full of old gay men who are either vacationing or have moved down here with their partners of at least eight years. Not much for me. But I'm trying to make the best of it, and I'm facing Key West's biggest event, Fantasy Fest, coming up in the next week. Here's hoping I get the motivation to go out and fight the crowds and see what all the stories are actually about.

And that brings me to tonight. Last night I gave notice to my current manager that I’d be leaving (also met with “I knew it.” Wtf?) because in a week and a half, my best friend from college is coming to visit and after she leaves I will be packing my car up and driving back to North Carolina. So here it is, friends, my official announcement that by November 6, I will be back in action in the Tar Heel State. This is my fifth and final resignation letter in my time here; this time it's Key West that I'm quitting. Thank you, and good riddance. 

This post is about shoes

I have this dream that one day there will be clothing stores that aren’t divided into “women’s” and “men’s” sections; that there will be a shoe, a shirt, an ensemble, that can be worn without question by any gender. I don’t mean “androgynous” or “unisex;” I’m thinking something more gender-fluid. Like “I, as a designer, had a specific person in mind when I designed this, but wear it if you like it.” I guess it has to do more with the marketing and merchandising than the designing. When you label something “womenswear,” you isolate the product and the company to only a specific part of the market. But what if you entered a store with sections only assigned the labels of “tops,” “bottoms,” (insert crass gay joke here) “shoes,” etc? 

For the past year, I’ve been searching for the perfect pair of shoes. “Searching,” as in, looking for a place to buy them, not aimlessly looking for something to catch my eye, the way I usually shop. This time I have something very specific in mind. I need a new pair of boots. I wore all of mine to death - to the point that every piece is separating from the others. I’m desperately holding on to the combat boots I got from Forever 21 Men almost two years ago, but at this point taking them off y feet involves ripping the soles from the body of the shoe, which is both physically and emotionally painful for both me and the boot. While I would definitely jump at the chance to buy an exact replica of my beloved boots (when they were in their prime), I’ve set my sites on a goal much higher: a pair of boots that seems to only exist in my mind.

You see, I’m looking for a combat boot with a real fashion twist, not unlike my poor suffering leather and suede pair. But I’ve found myself feeling much more confident, much more attractive, much more myself, when I’m wearing something with a lift. If you’ve met me, you know that my confidence boost that comes with the height boost doesn’t come from height insecurities. I am 6’1”, afterall. But something about a hard wooden heel, even of 1.5 inches, makes me stand straighter, more powerful. 

So there it is: the perfect shoe. A brown combat-inspired boot, a touch of suede and a heel of at least 1.5 inches. It’s beautiful in my mind, but impossible to find. For me, at least. 

Whether it was before or after my fantasy developed is unclear, but these perfect boots walked into my life a few months ago. On the feet of my best friend, who happens to be a woman. With my hopes high, I looked into the maker of these boots, only to be not only let down, but heart-broken at the fact that they were only made up to a women’s size 10. I wear a 12. In men’s.

At least I had a start. The shoes exist. Surely some investigative shopping would lead me to a site that caters to larger sizes, even at a higher cost. But so, I’ve been searching for months to no avail. 

So now I’m doomed to continually find Uggs, strappy kitten heels and pleather thigh-highs when I search for extended sizes in the categories of “women’s shoes,” in hope that someday I’ll find, or maybe develop, a line of “shoes” where I can find what I’m looking for. 

Livin' la Vida Loca: Spring Break in Puerto Poor-o

The countdown to this trip began approximately three years ago. "Let's do something big for our senior Spring Break," my best friend said sophomore year.  Oh, little did she know how "big" things would tend to be by this point in our lives.
Let me first start off by giving a rundown of previous spring break experiences in college. Contrary to the hype promoted by teen dramedies - both in the film and television drama - Spring Break in college is not all topless women on beaches. At least not as far as I'm concerned.  I don't remember anything about my spring break my freshman year. This is a quality that I would hope would come from every spring break, but instead of a lack of memory due to cheap alcohol consumption, I simply don't remember it because absolutely nothing happened. If I had to guess, I'd assume that I spent the entire week on the couch in my parents' house watching ABC Family and left to entertain myself. Sophomore year I had a job waiting for me back in Alamance County over spring break but, being the slacker that I have always been, I chose to spend this one, again, on the couch at my parents' house.  I went on to make up for my lame spring break a few weeks later by spending an entire extended weekend high off my ass at a friend's beach house, which led to some of the most memorable experiences and the worst farmer's tan of my life.  This leads me into junior year...
The success of the previous year's post-spring break trip on my mind, I agreed to spend my next spring break at the same beach house, hopefully doing (and not remembering) all of the same things. I spent the entire week before spring break counting down the hours until I would step out of the car and into the salty NC-beach air. I had nothing but high hopes for the trip.  That is, until about 30 minutes into the car ride.  The clock struck 4:19pm and, without hesitating, the lighter came out.  Spring Break, hell yeah! I thought. But after my second hit, I was considering jumping out the window of the car to avoid ending up at this beach house with 19 strangers. It's just the weed, I told myself.  Well, that and the fact that I had replaced my anxiety medication with Adderall for the past week in order to cram for midterms. I'll just stop smoking now and take some medicine when we get there. This will be over soon. Turns out I was more wrong than words can describe. I spent the next few days in the bed in the frigid basement of this beach house (a private room with a private bathroom I was kindly assigned by my friend whose family owned the house) terrified to go up the 9 flights of stairs to face these people that were awaiting my appearance. I showed my face for about 30 minutes every day and spent the rest of my hours sleeping and watching SpongeBob until I couldn't take it anymore and, like the spoiled pussy I tend to be, had my dad drive all the way to the Outer Banks to pick me up. I confided in my friend that I wasn't comfortable being there, but asked him to tell his friends that I was feeling sick - something that, if they had known me, wouldn't be too hard to believe. But that's another story. So I left that spring break feeling embarrassed and delirious - things that college students probably look for in their spring breaks. But my feelings were for all the wrong reasons.
So, as you can tell, my senior year spring break had a lot to live up to. Even with spring break months away at the beginning of the year, I assumed I'd be spending my break either back at my parents' place or alternately working and sleeping.  But promptly my best friend, adventure enthusiast and extensive planner reminded me that we had been planning our senior spring break for years.
We out-ruled Cancun a long time ago. Sure, it sounded like so much fun, but just flying there would have cost twice the amount of money that I had in my bank account. So we researched other destinations where we could balance fun and adventure.  We ultimately decided on Jamaica - and by "we," I mean my friend. I'm always down for whatever shenanigan she can plan, as long as I don't have to think too much about it.  After a lot of excitement, a little research and a lot of let-down, we decided Jamaica wouldn't be the safest place for a pretty girl and her blonde girlfriend to vacation.  You see, we're against resorts. Not because we're all about seeing the "real" Jamaica or anything, but just because we cannot and will not ever be able to afford them.  And if you've ever read a travel website, you'd know that any tourism outside of resorts in Jamaica is frowned upon and explored at your own risk.  So it was then that we (again: my friend) looked into other options.  We finally decided on Puerto Rico. It had a big city where we could party, but was also beachy and tropical and totally worth exploring. My only concern: we don't speak Spanish. I had taken five years of French. Shenzie has studied Spanish in the past, but came out of her five years with a knowledge of about three vocabulary words. But all the travel websites assured us that "everyone" would speak English in Puerto Rico - it is their national language, after all!
It didn't take much for me to talk myself into being excited for this trip. North Carolina was experiencing a ground- breaking "Polar Vortex" and I couldn't see the sun in the foreseeable future. The idea of Puerto Rico brought back memories of tropical bliss in Hawaii the past summer. As the Spring semester started, my longing became an obsession. All I could think about was Puerto Rico, the beach, the boys and the rum. Then, finally, after a few midterms and papers that I blew through, it was the weekend before we were to depart. I had been bundled up in pea-coats for so long that I was completely ecstatic to pull out my crop-tops and cutoff jean shorts and start packing. I packed early, as usual, and then found myself with nothing to do but wait the night before. So after a few hours of watching my current Netflix obsession and a huge fallout with my Black Panther roommate, I decided to take a "nap" at about midnight so that I'd have a few hours of sleep before boarding the taxi at 4am and eventually the plane that would take me away from this frozen hell of which I was convinced I could never become accustomed.
Getting there went surprisingly smoothly. We jumped off the plane, got our checked bag immediately and then got in a taxi to pick up our rental car that we would eventually put 1000 miles on. After a few confusing missed turns and one fender-bender, we ended up at our first hostel. We couldn't check in immediately so, I donned the first crop-top and bathing suit I could find in my luggage and we headed to the beach, After a few hours of exploring and standing outside a government official's house and begin watched by his security (we thought it was Ricky Martin's house), we were able to check in to our room, which was private but barely larger than a single-sized bed.
The best news about the first leg of our trip was that we had a group of friends also vacationing in the area. Shenzie and I headed to Old San Juan for dinner and exploring and eventually met our friends at a popular spring-breaker spot: Senor Frog's. Our first night in Puerto Rico was relatively tame (from our side). I spent approximately $73 at the bar on three drinks and made out with a girl I had just met, but, hey, it was spring break.
The next day, Shenzie and I took our time waking up, then got ready and headed for the beach. After settling down on the beautiful white-capped beach and downing two Four Lokos and a few shots of vodka, we set out to meet our friends again. I bought a bottle of rum at the nearest Walgreens (because I'm obsessed with both alcohol and any casual drug store where you can buy it) and we headed for our friends' hotel, which was swankier than I could have ever imagined.
The last thing I legitimately remember about that night was pulling one of my friends out of her hotel bed and then drinking rum straight out of the bottle.
I woke up the next morning in the passenger seat of our rental car on the corner of a strange street with one shoe and no iPhone. I stumbled out of the car, attempted to say hello to the Puerto Rican woman selling hotdogs right beside our car and wandered the streets until I found something familiar. I lucked into the main door of our hostel being unlocked, then immediately got in the shower. I was hungover, greasy, sweaty and covered in regret for something I didn't even remember.
Let me break down for you the events of the night, as I have pieced together from halfway listening to stories that my friends told me.
We got to our friends' hotel, where I proceeded to drink half of a small bottle of rum. It was suggested several times that I stop or at least take a break, but, being the professional drinker that I think I am, I refused. We eventually left for bars, where I got in without an ID (I had misplaced it the night before when I wasn't even drunk... wtf?!), but then bragged to the entire bar about how I had sneaked in a bottle of rum in the waistband of my tiny shorts. Turns out holding a bottle of liquor above your head is grounds to be kicked out of a bar. For some reason my friends allowed me to continue bar hopping, only to have me kicked out of the next bar, where I ended up threatening the bouncers.  I'm pretty damn lucky no one takes me seriously because we all know I couldn't even win in a fight with a 6-year-old. Then my friends stuffed me into our rental car, where I passed out, and woke up several times, jumped out, lost a shoe, and then fell asleep for good once we made it back to our hostel.
I'd say this is tied for the drunkest I've ever been, along with about 4 other nights.
Like I said, I woke was iPhoneless.  I know that I'm pretty dependent on my iPhone, but I could have survived without it for a week until we got back to the States where my Applecare would've kicked in. But here was the problem: my phone was literally our only contact with the outside world, not to mention the source of the GPS that would take us on all the rest of our planned adventures. So I needed a replacement ASAP.
My sober friend was smart and kind enough to find a place where I could get a new phone.  Little did we know there wasn't an Apple store in the whole country of Puerto Rico, just an imitation store that sold iPods and iPads. So after a lot of pondering, I bought a brand new, no contract iPhone from RadioShack. That's $700 that I hadn't planned on spending on this trip.
But afterwards, cute gold iPhone in hand, equipped with Google Maps and Grindr, we were able to set off for our next adventure destination.
After two hours of driving, yelling and singing (Puerto Rican drivers are INSANE. I won't get into that now because it deserves its own post), we arrived at our destination, a hostel in a small surf town on the west coast of Puerto Rico. The funny thing was, the GPS had taken us to a residential neighborhood where the windows were covered in wrought iron and urban youths were playing basketball outside a youth center. Seeing as there are apparently no street addressed in Puerto Rico, we were a little confused as to where we were - especially because there was no sign of a beach anywhere close. After about 17 minutes on the phone with our hostel, we discovered that our GPS had taken us to a completely random place in Central Puerto Rico... a fact that I attribute not to our error or our GPS, but to the fact that the Puerto Rican street address system is completely insane. So that led us to another two hours of driving. But finally we pulled into our hostel parking lot, which looked a lot like a bar... because it was behind a bar. Which is the last place you want to be when you're hungover and roadtrip-lagged and looking to fall asleep immediately. Upside? HUGE room with our own bathroom. So we settled in and went to sleep with our minds filled with dreams of adventures yet to come.
The next morning, we met a shirtless, tan, shoulder-length-blond-hair boy with three surfboards on his head on the beach, where he proceeded to teach us to surf. And by "teach," I mean "remind us of our past lives as surfer-extraordinaires," because we were fucking awesome. I know that I was born with some inherent talent to surf, both because I captured the skill so fast and also because I didn't pay a second of attention to what the instructor was saying on the beach before we got in the water because I was too busy looking at his abs and the area where his swim trunks stuck out a little bit from his torso so I could see a little glimpse of his pubes. After our successful lesson, our dreamy guide recommended we try fresh watermelon margaritas from a beach-side shack a few miles away. As if this boy couldn't get any more perfect, he knew EXACTLY what I needed. These margaritas were refreshing heaven in a plastic cup. After two at the bar, we got another to-go and found a little spot on the beach where I caught up on some reading, took a nap, met some friends and bought some weed. It was during this last part of the adventure that my life changed for the best: "I think I just saw a spout," this random drug dealer said. Then I looked out into the ocean where the sun was beginning to set and saw a humpback whale leap out of the water. Three times. I'm not Hilary Duff, but that was what dreams are made of.
Later that night, I rolled a joint on the David Sedaris book that I had checked out from our university library and we passed out, full of bliss from a perfect day.
The next day, we headed to another part of the island where we were set to snorkel some beautiful Puerto Rican reef. On our way, we stopped at a little place called Cabo Rojo, aka heaven. It was a beautiful white-sand-beached bay surrounded by cliffs. After hiking, sunbathing and swimming, we set out to our snorkeling destination. After spending the past two days in paradise, we were destined for a let-down, which came with the snorkeling company. They had a half-assed version of our reservation and offered us a "sunset dive" which would require us to wait around for hours, eat shitty food that they provided us and then go on a short, shallow dive at 6:30pm. Nope.
So we ended up at a disgusting public beach riddled with locals, trash, dogs and, most importantly, Pina Coladas. After accidentally and befriending a feral dog, we left and went back to our hotel (upgraded free of charge from the hostel) and took a break.
The next morning, we departed at 6:30am (FYI, that exists! Who knew?) on our way to the northern part of the island to go caving. We met with a group of people with some serious attitude problems, then followed them up a mountain to a farm that eerily resembled Alamance County, NC, complete with cows and barbed wire.  After a safety briefing, we set off down the mountain and into a river and eventually pitch-black and dead-silent caves, where I may have been expected to get in touch with my inner thoughts or some sort of spiritual world. Instead, I hit myself in the face trying to see if I could see my hand in "complete" darkness. I came out of that trip wet, cold, muddy and happier than I've ever been in my entire life. We met a wonderful couple on the journey that consisted of a beautiful woman and and even more beautiful man who was either her son or her boyfriend. I was hoping he was her son because that would increase the chance that he was single and that I could make a move on his shivering sculpted body.
Later that day, we drove to our next hostel, which we had picked because of its vicinity to the rain forest and to the exotic island where we would end our trip. When we got there we realized we had almost an entire eighth of weed left, so I rolled a joint and we ventured up onto the roof.  It was there that we were approached by a large group of seemingly college-aged people who wanted to be our friends. It didn't take long before I started accidentally insulting them and therefore pushing them away. First, I doubted the legitimacy of their beloved hometown, then, when I found out they were 26+, called them old.
"When I was 24 I didn't think I was old. But then 25 was a big deal," one of these bitches said.
"Yeah 25 sounds REALLY old. Like, WAY older than 24," I agreed.
"I'm 27..."
And I wonder why I don't have any friends.
Perhaps the best part about our stay on this part of the island was when we were completely lost. I had looked on Trip Adviser for good restaurants in the area and found one that looked appealing. But, again, our GPS led us to a random urban residential area. We asked a man if he could point us in the right direction and he not only knew the place we were talking about, but got in his car and told us to follow him. The name of the restaurant was "Blue Iguana" and, seeing that he spoke little to no English, I was assuming that he was either leading us to our imminent death or to see some real iguanas - neither of which I could get excited about. He pointed us toward a large resort and pulled away, leaving me relieved that I was getting away from him without a large hunting knife in my chest. We thought he was surely mad and was just trying to send us toward other Americans. "That crazy man he just sent us to some random hotel." Then after asking a few residents of the hotel, we found that the restaurant that we were looking for, that we had asked this non-English-speaking man about, was actually located in the hotel, exactly like our local friend had implied.
This was the first act of kindness we experienced for a Puerto Rican local.
The next few days passed by relatively the same. We met another local who we thought misunderstood our combination of English and broken Spanish, but then led us to a private beach where wild horses tended to graze. We spent that day on the beach, rolled a joint and left the evidence on this sweet man's farm property, then got drunk at the bar that accompanied our hostel.
The next morning, we caught the 6:30am ferry that took us back to where we needed to be. On this ferry were complaining families, loud snorers, a frigid air conditioner and a psychopath playing loud rap music the entire 1.5 hour ride. We got off the ferry, drove back to San Juan and spent the little bit of extra time we had relishing the view of the Caribbean beach and sea. A short 6 hours later, I was sitting in the DC airport looking out the window where snow lined the runway. And so quickly ended paradise.
All I can do now is relish my positive memories and my tan skin and hope that they both last until the summer.

FunDOC

If I've learned anything in the past two first-days of classes, it's that UNC is full of boring and annoying people. True, I've always been under the impression that I'm just really fun and interesting and no one else can compare, but that has never been so confirmed as it was during the "fun fact" portion of FDOC today.

My actual first day of class was relatively unimpressive, but today, the first day of MWF class, I spent two and a half hours hating all the students in my classes. In my first class, Diversity & Communication, I showed up still drunk (it starts at 12:30) and ready to vomit and assumed the day was going to go horribly. But then my teacher decided against the typical "tell us your name and a fun fact about yourself" and had us tell the class the following:

Name
Hometown
Major
Memorable diversity experience
Ideal guest speaker (dead or alive)
Biggest dream

After I finally got my laptop to connect to wifi I was all set up to not listen to everyone's answers. Then there was a twist. We were going to have to recite the name of every classmate who spoke before us. There are about 40 people in the class. Keep in mind I'm still drunk and only have the attention span to focus on one thing: not vomiting in class. And I was last in line.
The first few people had pretty uninteresting answers - I studied abroad over the summer, Barack Obama, to get a job after college - but when we got to the girl who said her ideal guest speaker would be Beyonce, I lost it. My first thought was "mhmm TRU," but then I really started to imagine Beyonce as a guest speaker: standing up there with her one robot hand and her deep ass voice rambling on and on about how blessed she is. I love Bey as much as the next gay, but that would just be awful.
As if that wasn't enough, the next girl's biggest dream almost ruined the hard work I was putting into not throwing up. "I just want to be a mom." Vom.
Even more vomit-inducing was the slew of  "diversity experiences" that included charity work in third world countries. "I spent the summer in Kenya..." "I taught English in Cambodia a few years ago..." Luckily I had sobered up enough to keep myself from blurting out "Oh come ON. You're in college, do something fun! I spent a month in Hawaii getting drunk and slacking off."  Just a request to anyone who speaks to me from now on: good for you for reconstructing an entire village for orphan buzzards in Peru, but please don't tell me about it. There is nothing more pretentious than flaunting your charity work. And you know daddy always says an ounce of pretension is worth a pound of manure.
In the moments when I wasn't loathing people for existing, I was thinking about what my answers would be. For my diversity experience, I thought about saying something about being gay in a small town, my month in Hippieville, HI and the 2 Chainz concert I went to last month. I ultimately decided on my Hawaii experience because "I lived in Hawaii for a month" always gets me those jealous looks that keep me young and attractive.
Next I thought "I have no idea who my ideal guest speaker would be." I thought about famous gays like Andy Warhol, fashion icons like Tom Ford or Alexander McQueen, as well as, of course, Britney. I thought I had settled on Britney when I really started to think. She DID say "dead or alive." Then I had my answer and was ashamed of myself for not thinking of it before: SpongeBob. I don't know what he'd talk about, but I'm sure he'd have something hilarious to say about anything. And if Saturday afternoons on my couch in front of the TV are any indication of my affection for the little guy, I think it's safe to say that I could listen to Spongebob lecture for hours.
And finally I had to narrow down my impossibly long list of dreams to find one that said to the class "I'm here, I'm queer and I'm more interesting than you." Obviously my first idea was "my biggest dream is to be famous." But let's face it, that's not very unique. Everyone wants to be famous and anyone who says they don't is an asshole and probably lying. So then I thought of my most serious and relatively new dream of being a model. That's interesting and all, but I always feel like people are laughing at me in their heads when I say that (if you are right now, shut up). So then I was thinking of all my other dreams, including being a bartender, owning and performing in a strip club in Myrtle Beach and - this one was a serious contender for "biggest" - that all the flies in the world cease to exist. When it was finally my turn and the class had stopped laughing at my SpongeBob comment (it killed), I said "and my biggest dream is to be a Kardashian." I waited through the laughter like I was on a live-audience sitcom and continued "I'm not exactly sure how that's going to happen. And if I can't get IN their family, I want to be just like them: all da money, a reality show and doing whatever the hell I want." More laughs. I was officially the most interesting person in the class, the JSchool, and, dare I say, the entire university and world.
I left that class with my head held high, glad that I had won the biggest laugh of the 40-person introduction line and that I kept myself calm when I thought I wasn't going to get to speak because the bitch ahead of me told 4 separate stories about her trip to Jordan  when there was only 4 minutes left of class.
Sidenote about this girl: I noticed her when I walked in because she had short dreadlocks, not unlike a bob, with ONE hanging down past her shoulder with a bead at the end that resembled a lightbulb. I know, what an asshole. One of her Jordanian (I learned from her today that that is in fact a word) stories did prove interesting, though: towards the end of her trip she was at a gathering with a small group of people from an array of countries and they decided to sing songs from their countries for the others. "One guy broke the ice; it was really cute he sang a song in Korean for us. So I decided to sing some Ella Fitzgerald, even though I am NOT a singer." After physically shuttering thinking about how awful that probably was, my next thought was "I woulda sang Miley."

After mentally kicking the people walking slowly in the rain in front of me on my way to my next class, I sat in the front row - not because I wanted to suck up or because I was at all interested in the class, but because I was no longer drunk but full blown hungover and needed to sit down - and was less than thrilled to realize that I had taken a class with this professor before and hated him with a passion.
A few minutes after taking my seat, I saw a lost-looking girl walking around in the hallway and she appeared at our door, looked at the room number, then at me. "What class is this?" "I don't know." "You don't know?" I wanted to say "No. I don't know what class this is. I registered for it months ago and only just looked at ConnectCarolina to see what classroom it was 5 minutes before I got here." I'd like to say that the nonchalance with which I approached this year's FDOC was because I'm a senior, but I've been doing that for years. "I finally looked at the schedule screenshot I had on my phone and said to her "Comm 521." "What class is that?" "I don't know." She looked frustrated. "521? What is that? Is that English?" "I don't know. No. Communications." She rolled her eyes and stormed away. I'm a senior, I'm hungover and you know what, in general I do not care about helping anyone. Don't fuck with me.
So once class started and this professor FINALLY and painstakingly got through several minutes of "uh.." (the reason why I hate him so much), he had us introduce ourselves the old fashioned way, complete with a fun fact. I stuck to "I lived and worked on a farm in Hawaii this summer," mostly because I wanted to stop while I was ahead. Most of the first few people had pretty basic answers, nothing I wanted to slit a throat for. But then we got to the second row of people and homegirl says "...and I went skydiving two years ago." Two. Years. Ago. Like that's cool and all but girl your life sucks.
And I didn't even get any time to recover from that gem; the next girl said "my great grandparents met in Ocracoke so we go there every summer." For once, I am speechless.

And now, here I am, sitting in my final class of the day (until 8:15, ugh). I nearly panicked thinking I was going to be late because traffic on campus ~*sux*~ and walked into class at 5:00 on the dot. Class starts at 5:30. I sat here feeling sorry for myself, but I got some relief when the professor came in and asked "does anyone have any music suggestions? I like to play music before class." Shy on the first day, as usual, the few people in the classroom was silent. Except for me, of course. So if any of you reading this were in the journalism school at about 5:25 and you heard Britney Spears' "Circus" playing loudly from a classroom, that was thanks to me.
And to get to know each other in this class, the professor came up with his own twist on the introduction game. I'm currently half-listening to my classmates explain their favorite website as they bring it up at the front of the classroom (and my Indian professor yell questions at them. Yell.). I'm avoiding volunteering to go next because obviously my favorite website is my own Twitter feed, but all of my most recent tweets are mean things about the people in this room. I'm thinking of doing it anyway.

So here's hoping for a long, stress-free, hilarious and drunk senior year. Go Heels!

Ohm shanti shanti shanti

When I get home and people begin to ask me "How was Hawaii?! Wasn't it amazing?," I truly don't know what I'm going to say. Of course it has been amazing -- I've swam in the Pacific Ocean at both white and black sand beaches, jumped into rivers surrounded by waterfalls and made friends with locals. I can say with certainty that this has been the most amazing experience of my life, but I can also say that the majority of these amazing things have occurred on weekends. That being said, if every weekend is a dream, every weekday has been very close to a nightmare.
There is nothing better to describe my entire experience here than the position that I am currently in: surrounded by hippies, drinking out of a mason jar, watching a movie about plants and smelling like mildew.
When we signed up to come to this place, we were asked to bring or buy organic shampoos and soaps; how cute, we thought: we're going to be living off the land. We pictured standing in the field together, swinging pick axes, singing Wade in the Water, shielding ourselves from the hot tropical sun with big beautiful sunhats. There have been pick axes and singing, but that was just about the end of the similarities between our dream trip and the "reality" that we've been living here.
As I sit here scratching my bug bites, I am reminded of our first day on the Big Island: we were picked up and given leis at the airport and taken into Hilo, the large city on our side of the island, where we shopped around in natural foods stores and a farmers' market. We were overwhelmed with excitement: "We're in Hawaiiiiiii!" we chanted as we walked along the sidewalks, gazing at dirty men playing ukuleles and kicking chihuahuas. We decided to buy some things at the market, thinking that farmers' markets and natural food stores would be our only chance to buy our own food (necessary because they only feed us two meals a day -- and I use the word "meal" very loosely). Our guide and boss for the month insisted that we try a local favorite drink at her favorite spot while we were in town. "You guys have to try the kava bar while we're here. It's this amazing drink with amazing effects; you'll love it!," she kept saying. Hell yeah, we thought; first day here and we're going to a bar in the middle of the day. The drink that we tasted should have been a HUGE hint at what the rest of our time here would be like: halved coconuts were placed in front of us and we were served kava, a brownish watery substance, out of a cauldron that was perched on the bar. As we were led through the kava drinking ceremony -- splashing some on the floor (for the homies who couldn't make it to the party), into the air (for Biggie and Tupac up in the sky), over our shoulders (?) and then clapping twice -- we threw it back. Or at least tried to. We were later informed that the "kava" from which this drink is made is a root grown in Hawaii. And you know what? That's exactly what it tasted like. A root. More specifically, the dirt that the root came out of. I opted out of drinking the rest of mine despite the promise of its magical effects: a relaxation and apparent close-to-drunkenness. Not worth it. I watched my friends get a taste for the liquefied dirt and when they finished, we headed to the farm (first stopping at another natural foods store, "The Natch," it's affectionately called here, where we got a delicious lunch from a buffet).
We arrived at our cute little cabin -- jungalow -- and unloaded our things, then were shown around the farm. Again, we were so excited. We spent our first night in the spa and settled into our cozy beds, happier than ever to be in one of the most beautiful places on Earth.
Come Monday, we were in for a reality check: we weren't here for paradise, we were here to learn and to work. We quickly jumped on the available job of housekeeping, the idea of which kept us entertained for at least two weeks, but we were also required to work on the land two days a week, which was quite the experience. On our first day on the land, we spent about 37 hours laying down cardboard and then mulching a mud pit. Having been forced to spread mulch for nearly my entire life at home, this seemed like it was going to be a piece of cake. And it was -- aside from the constant hoards of bugs and the downpours of rain that occurred every five minutes. We were told that summer on the island is the dry season, but you could've fooled me. All rain, all day. I sadly forfeited my hopes for returning to the mainland with a beautiful bronze tan only a few days into the trip. I'm sure most of you know that if it even seems like it's going to rain in Chapel Hill, the chances of me even getting out of bed are slim to none; so waking up to the sound of rain on our tarp roof (very similar to a blitz gunfire) and going out to work in it was not one of my favorite things about Hawaii, to say the least.
If there's anything that I've enjoyed less than the bugs and the rain this month, it's the food. Our first "all natural" food experience was breakfast on Monday: a "chocolate" smoothie and oatmeal. Oh my god, a chocolate smoothie. For breakfast! These people really know how to live, I thought. I don't know if any of you have tasted raw cacao, but it is absolutely nothing like the Hershey bar that it can eventually be made into. This smoothie looked, smelled and tasted like dirt and the oatmeal wasn't much different. Lunch consisted of little more than a bowl of leaves and maybe a soup, none of which interested me. This is advertised as a cleansing retreat, so I'll just cleanse for an entire month. I set out on a mission to fast for an entire month, but that quickly ended on the first night after work when I thought I was starving to death. Luckily I eventually developed not only a taste for, but a love for quinoa, which is served most days at lunch. It's sticky and heavy and gives me some of the protein I need to half-ass the slave work I was expected to do every day. After two weeks, even this routine got old, and we biked into town to stock up on MSG at the drug store. I still eat quinoa and drink water all day during the day, but come nighttime in the confines and secrecy of our jungalow, I stuff myself with delicacies including Oreos, Cheetoes, Ritz Crackers and, mostly importantly, Pepsi. So for any of you who were expecting me to come home fit and tan, I am sorry to let you down. I'll be coming home exactly how I left.
My time on the farm hasn't been all bad, I suppose. I'm here with my best friends and I have a comfortable bed and the jungle is very beautiful every now and then when the rain lets up. The farm where we're staying offers several beneficial classes and events, which we have been trying to take full advantage of. Our first class was hula, which is a lot harder than it looks, especially when you're just thrown with no training into warm-ups with the royal court dancers. I found the love of my life in that hula class. I immediately forgot his name after we were introduced, but I will never forget the sight of tightly wrapped sarong as he danced in front of me.
Perhaps the biggest surprise for me here has been how much I've enjoyed yoga. It always seemed fun, but the only experience with practicing yoga that I came here with was the one time my friend forced me to go with her freshman year; our teacher had a lisp and I could barely stretch my fingers past my kneecaps. Needless to say, I never saw myself doing yoga again. But hey, I'm in Hawaii and I'm supposed to be relaxing, so why not? The first week of yoga was nice, but in our second week, I fell in love with our yoga instructor Maura. Not only is she beautiful, but her voice is the closest to heaven I have ever been and the closest I will likely ever get. She's been the only person here so far that doesn't judge us and she sings along when I tell her in song how much I love her. Every yoga session with her leaves me near tears and melting into the mat. Our second week of yoga with her was perhaps one of the most transformative experiences of my life. She called it "restorative yoga" and if you haven't tried it, I highly recommend it; though I'm not sure of how effective it will be without the voice of our angel there to guide you. At the end of every class, we end with an "Ohm shanti shanti shanti," which I've adopted as my new motto. If you ever see this, Maura, thank you again. Please call me and/or send me a recording of your voice.

Saying Aloha to my struggles

As my month in Hawaii begins to tip over the halfway point, I'd like to make it known that it's not as glamorous as it sounded. A typical day for me here consists of hippies, dirt and bugs and only those things. But more on that later. 

If you've been in contact with me for the past year and a half, you probably know how much of a mess my life has been. It started when I was invaded by a demon or two or six in December of 2011. Ever since then, I've done nothing but struggle. Sometimes the struggles are small; sometimes they're big. Sometimes I sneeze every minute on the minute; sometimes my computer crashes when I open it up to use it for an exam. Sometimes my phone won't send text messages; sometimes my car breaks down on the interstate. Big or small, laughable or panic-inducing, struggles have been present for what seems like a lifetime. I tried to convince myself that this demon would be kind enough to leave me alone for a month while I try to relax in the Aloha State. I wasn't foolish enough to believe that my travels would be struggle-free, but I hoped and prayed to everyone and everything that things would go smoothly. The results reminded me why I never pray in the first place.

The pre-Hawaii struggle began when I spent nearly $3000 in one week -- a week I began with just under $1000. I won't bore you with those details, but I will just say that I am very grateful to my amazing parents for their help and support. The struggle continued when I got sick, went to Campus Health (who, as usual, could not tell me what was wrong with me), and had the pleasure of picking my phone up off the concrete and basking in the beauty of a newly shattered screen. An easy fix, especially with an Apple store so close to me, but the aforementioned bank account problems put a halt to thinking about phone repairs fairly quickly. Luckily I can record this on my list of small struggles, as my phone is still functioning just fine (aside from a charging scare I had last week). Next I had an issue with the USB ports on my replacement computer, which was a dire issue considering I needed a way to sync all my new music for my 12+ hours on a plane and month in Hawaii that were approaching. 

"The way my life is going, I bet the plane won't even take off next week." 

A dramatic reaction to a computer problem (that was easily fixed after a lot of tears and a lot of damage to my hair and scalp), maybe. But inaccurate it was not. My roommate managed to fix the first problem of our departure day by finding a replacement ride to the airport after our original ride canceled; hopes and prayers that that would be our only struggle again went unanswered, as our flight was delayed after boarding due to mechanical issues. Not a big deal for a relatively relaxed person like me, but the issue lay in the fact that we had a fairly short layover for our connection flight in Detroit. Once the plane finally took off, we literally ran with a nice couple who was also on their way to HI to catch our next flight. And if you know me, you know that running is something I like to keep to a minimum (even though running on the moving sidewalks was pretty exhilarating). We made that flight: major struggle avoided. We made it to Seattle with plenty of time to catch our next connection -- that is, we would have made our connection had our flight attendant from Detroit not sent us in circles to find our gate, which was right beside the gate at which we just arrived. So after running down about a mile of stairs, taking about 37 trains in circles, we get to the gate she told us to go to, where we're informed (very rudely) that we are in fact at the wrong gate and that we need to go back to where we came from. So again we board the trains and run back up those miles of stairs and we make it to where we're supposed to be with seven minutes to spare before our departure time. Struggle avoided again, right? Wrong. At this point we were informed (again, very rudely) that we were not allowed to get on the plane that was sitting right in front of us with people still standing under it because they stop boarding at a ridiculously inconvenient time, something like eight minutes before departure. So we're pretty much shooed away and told that there is no hope for our trip to Hawaii. After a very forceful phone call to a Delta representative by my roommate, we were transferred to another flight with a Delta partner. Struggle fixed, right? If you've been following, you can probably guess that the answer is a big ol' WRONG. We get to Alaskan airlines (miles of stairs and 37 trains later) and we're told that we can't get on yet another flight; I don't know if the aforementioned Delta representative just made up the fact that she got us on another flight or if the people running the Alaskan Airlines desk are just trained to be as difficult as possible, but they tell us that the plane is full and there's no way we can get on it. "We only have one seat open," they told us. After some more demanding, which was approaching a screaming hissy fit from the three of us, we're put on the plane (which meant that either the plane actually had more than one empty seat or two people were kicked off -- at this point I really didn't care which). So after a major internal struggle over whether or not to pay $10 for in-flight entertainment, deciding to forgo it, taking a sleeping pill and popping in my headphones, it was smooth sailing over the open seas from Seattle to Oahu, where we surprisingly managed to check in to our cute hotel, find food and get to sleep without a hitch. I even got to settle my craving for fried rice the next morning while waiting for our flight to the Big Island. It seemed like the rest of the trip was going to go smoothly with little to no struggles. Right? Stay tuned. 

I'd like to take this moment to formally apologize to Taylor Swift.

I've always said that I was never "in the closet." I was never hiding the fact that I was gay; I can't exactly explain it but it was like I wasn't until...I was. I still whole-heartedly believe that, but as I look back on my pre-gay life, I realize that I was holding myself back - there were so many things in life that straight guys weren't supposed to be into, so I kind of hid my interest in them and didn't allow myself to pursue them as interests. It wasn't until recently that I finally started to allow my slightly gay-skewed interests to blossom. Here they are.

The first interest-block that I let go of was my aversion to Glee. Even in the beginning I thought it was a little too stereotypical gay to watch it, but once I did and I was exposed to just one scene of Darren Criss and one song by the flawless Lea Michele, I couldn't resist any longer. I'm still slightly ashamed to admit, though, that often I listen to the Glee version of a song on my iPod more often than the original.

If you see me in person often or are friends with me on Facebook, you probably have noticed that I no longer hold myself back from grabbing every box of $4 drugstore hair dye that I can get my hands on. It's gotten to the point where I don't remember what my natural hair color was and I'm not exactly sure what color my hair is supposed to be right now.

Similar to Glee, I never indulged in Sex & the City until after I chose to be gay. (Joke). In fact I completely believe that if there would have been reruns of the series on E! before the past year or so, I would have been gay a long time ago. I know that watching reruns on basic cable is no way to experience the series, but I believe I have seen every episode that is acceptable to play on regular TV and I must say that Carrie Bradshaw is my idol and I want to be her someday.

Speaking of Carrie Bradshaw, I have decided to no longer stop myself from describing someone or something as "fabulous." Talk about stereotypical, I know, but sometimes there is just no other word. To describe, say, a six-inch fringed platform stiletto, a thigh-length coat with a fur collar or Carrie Bradshaw herself as anything other than fabulous would just be inaccurate. I've always known this and I can't tell you how many times I've stopped myself from uttering the word, even into the last year when I was as gay as I thought I could get. As a result there's a lot of "fabulous" built up inside me. So get ready world.

Other things that fall into the category of too-gay-until-now interests include jorts, hair spray, eye liner and eyebrow tweezing. But the biggest surprise of my gay career so far has been my sudden recognition of the perfectness that is Taylor Swift. If you knew me prior to the past few months and the release of "Red," you've probably heard me rant about how much I hate Taylor Swift, how horrible she is and how all her songs sound like she's just reading a page out of her preteen diary and strumming a guitar. Then when "We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together," the first single off of Red, was released, I thought maybe my inability to stop listening was just a one-time thing. She got lucky writing a song that was so annoying that it was catchy. But then as she released single after single, I repeatedly surprised myself when I didn't hate them. So then I switched from "I hate everything Taylor Swift says, sings and does" to "I hate Taylor Swift but the singles from her new album are pretty good." Then when the album came out and I couldn't stop listening to it, it changed to "Taylor Swift must really be maturing because I really like her new stuff." And I was content with this. But then as I would periodically hear some of her older music on the radio or coming from my roommate's room, I was taken aback by my lack of hatred. No longer was I gagging at the sound of her voice or making fun of her lyrics (though I do still tend to sing "Ours" and "Mean" as one song because, come on, they are the same song), but I was actually enjoying and on some cases relating to the songs. Maybe it's because now I know what it's like to be a teenage girl crushing on a boy who will never notice me. I guess I'm just a little late in experience what Taylor apparently did when she was 14.

Nowadays you can find me listening to Red, dancing, singing and crying all at the same time, on a daily basis. I can't get enough of "I Knew You Were Trouble" and I sob uncontrollably to "I Almost Do" every single time. So here it is world, I'm caving in. I accept Taylor Swift as my leader and savior and I am never. ever. going. back.