When I was a teenager (GOD THAT WAS SO LONG AGO) I was convinced I was indestructible. I still feel indestructible at the far more distinguished age of twenty-two, save my personal kryptonite, which happens to be men. All men. They make me act like a fucking lunatic, lose all sense of independence and say stupid, stupid shit like “I love you.” Totally gay. Fortunately this particular story doesn’t have much to do with boys, so they can all piss off. It does, however, have much to do with my feelings of indestructibility, as they are what lead to my actions, which lead to the most miserable “Walk-of-Shame” in my personal history.           

The Time: January, 2008

The Place: University of Michigan, Ann Arbor

IMPORTANT NOTE: Some names have been changed to protect the identity of the real persons. They have been replaced with the names of celebrities. Strictly for purposes of FUN.

It was the second semester of my freshman year and I was gearing up for the second “Freshman-Senior Buddy” party. Like a lot of college programs, my college has an informal “mentor” system in which the seniors choose a freshman to take under their wing. All along the year they are there to guide their freshman buddy, offer them advice, provide them with encouragement and be a role model for them. And get them shit-wrecked. One of these days I hope UMich changes the term to “Mentor/Mentee” because I find the word “buddy” to be, like, super fucking demeaning. Possibly because it’s what my ex-boyfriends usually end up calling me, since they don’t have the balls to just call me “dickhead.” But I digress…

I lucked out because I got TWO senior buddies (mentors); a really hot guy named JAKE GYLLENHAAL (who randomly also grew up in McKinney, Texas) and a really hot lesbian named MARIAH CAREY (who was a lesbian). They were great buddies, and since they supported my vices, I will always have love for them in my black upon black heart. 

The night of the party I bumped into my super hot senior buddy JAKE GYLLENHAAL outside of the music school. It was freezing outside.

“Hey buddy!” (there’s that awesome word again) he said with a huge smile. Touch me.

 “Hey… buddy!” I said back like a lame piece of shit.As a freshman I had the tendency to freeze up around the seniors, who I was in awe of. The three-year difference in college has a tendency to cause an enormous communication barrier between the freshmen and seniors, and while I loved JAKE GYLLENHAAL, I just didn’t know how to communicate with him very well. All we had in common were our supermodel looks and it was way too cold outside to start discussing those.

“You’re going to the party, right??” Stop looking at his pecs, Tyler.

“Yeah, of course I am!” Don’t think of him shirtless, Tyler I said with freshman year enthusiasm. I’m astounded how some people can EVER turn down the opportunity to drink themselves silly.

“Great! What’s the best kind of alcohol can I get you?” Par-DOHN? Did you say best? That’s a trick. I decided to go the frat boy route. Probably because I was in the presence of an enormous, jacked straight guy. Hold me.

“Could you get me Jager and Red Bull?”

“Yeah man! I’ll see you then!” And with the promise of that night’s inebriation JAKE GYLLENHAAL is really, really good-looking baiting me along, I left him and walked back to my dorm.

When I got there I showered and changed into my usual choice of clothing: Plaid. Parties didn’t generally start until eleven at night, so I wasted time doing homework or watching episodes of Degrassi.

Other times I watched porn.

Hi Katlin! (That’s my sister.) I hope you’re having fun in Turkey, Katlin! (Even though it’s a country called Turkey.)

So yeah: Porn. I was eighteen. Offended? Flustered? Go read Perez instead. I hear he’s a gay novelty too.

Where was I?

I DIDN’T look at porn that night because my roommate, BILL COSBY had come home early. BILL COSBY was an international Engineering student from Mumbai, India. He was a really cool guy. We never had any roommate issues, and got along very well. The biggest problem I had was learning how to live in the same vicinity as his ethnic cooking, which was fucking delicious, but usually fumigated me out of the room. Small potatoes.

BILL COSBY liked to smoke weed. Lots of weed. His nickname was Hash. And I could always tell when he was high…

I would be sitting watching Youtubes of belting or something gay like that, and suddenly I would hear him outside fumbling with the doorknob. Two minutes later, when he had figured out how doors work, BILL COSBY would walk into the room and stand completely still, several feet from where I was sitting. I would look up from my computer and see BILL COSBY standing there with his gigantic engineering student headphones on, and as soon as his bloodshot eyes met mine, he would start giggling. He would say nothing to me, and saunter into his connected bedroom with a huge smile on his face.

BILL COSBY was giggling a lot that night.

BILL COSBY had probably smoked a lot of weed that night.

CUT TO: The Party, 2 Hours Later

Good ol’ JAKE GYLLENHAAL pulled through and presented me with my alcoholic gifts. I plugged right through my double-fisted friends Jager and Red Bull, and was sweating my balls off, as usual.

The apartment, a place of Michigan Musical Theatre legend, is known as The Roundhouse, and has been in the theatrical family for literal decades. That night, it was crammed wall-to-wall with drunk, sticky college students. It felt like a fucking Florida swamp in the main room (which also served as the dance floor), and the only relief from the humidity came when newly arriving partygoers brought the Ann Arbor wind through the front door with them.

Things were extra sloppy that night. I took pictures of everything during my freshman year, because I loved to document parties. It was always fun to review them the next day to see what exactly I had forgotten.

 I spent most of the night dancing in the living room with anyone who dared touch my sweaty self. I don’t mean perspiring. I mean I was ew-you-look-like-you-just-got-pissed-on sodden. It’s a problem. But that’s life, right?

About an hour and a half into the party, my bottle of Jager was empty, and so was my Red Bull. I was extremely drunk and extremely hyper and extremely unconvinced that I had reached optimum levels of inebriation (See? I thought I was indestructible.). I decided to look to the seniors for assistance.

I went into the kitchen and found JOHN CUSACK drinking a beer by the fridge.

“JOHN CUSACK,” I slurred, “I’m not druhnk yet!”

“Really?! Are you sure? How much have you had to drink?”

“I don’t knoow! Like, just a theeng of Jager! But seeriuzzly I want summore!” God damnit, Tyler.

“No problem, buddy!” Buddy! JOHN CUSACK had understood my mush-mouthed, request, because he reached over the top of the fridge and handed me an enormous bottle of…………………tequilaaaa.

Byyyyyeeeee, Tyyyyylerrrrr!

“Here ya go, buddy! Knock yourself out!” Ha! Youuuuu have no idea…

JOHN CUSACK patted me on the back like the BUDDY I am and left me with my new poison. I checked out the bottle. It was the cheap stuff. The cheapEST stuff. You know the sort. The kind of tequila that could burn the fur off puppies. I started swigging it. Oh hey, FIRE!

My throat begged for mercy, but the bottle begged to be finished. After all, there were only a few inches of the stuff left… right? I mean…I didn’t want it to go to waste….because…children in Africa…don’t HAVE tequila…….. Fuck it, I’m Irish.

I’d like to take a moment to shout out to my mother. Hey Mom! Love you!  If you’re reading this I promise I’m not a failure! I’ve just made a failing choice once or ten times. And I’m not throwing my life away or anything, I’ve just thrown a few nights away. But I’ve cleaned up my act, sort of! Anyway, I looooove you! And I’m still alive! Okay!

CUT TO: The Same Party, 1 Hour Later

Within a few minutes I had reached a satisfactory level of intoxication and was sitting on the counter having a conversation with my friend Holly, when I suddenly locked eyes with BRADLEY COOPER (I wish).

He was in the middle of a conversation with a friend, but kept doing that thing where he made eye contact with me instead of his friend. Those “gay eyes.” “Hungry Like The Wolf” started playing in my head.

CUT TO: The Adjacent Bedroom, Two Minutes Later

I am making out with BRADLEY COOPER like the apocalypse is on the horizon. I remember him having really bad dry mouth and his tongue tasting like sandpaper. I’m such a good sport.

An unidentified senior walked in on us kissing and, embarrassed, apologized and slammed the door. Meh.

Several minutes later, BRADLEY COOPER left, and our impromptu kissing session was done. I was cuddling on the couch with my bottle of tequila. My empty bottle of tequila. The room was practically empty. I had officially drank the night away, and into a distant non-memory (which is being remembered now).

JOHN CUSACK came into the living room and patiently informed me I was too drunk to take the bus home.

“Buddy, I don’t think you should ride the bus tonight… You should just sleep here, okay? Your friend Nora is spending the night too, she’s already asleep in the bed—just go jump in with her.”

“Okay, JOHN CUSACK, thaankyou! I theenkyer really graate.” I’m giving myself the benefit of the doubt with that line. I probably was half-asleep and incapable of forming words.

I promptly went into the bedroom and passed out next to Nora.

This part of the story is hazy, so I’ll tell it to the best of my abilities…

Halfway through the night I woke up with the all-too-frequent realization that my bladder was literally going to explode if I didn’t empty it. I crawled out of bed and bumblefucked my way to the bathroom down the hall.

Hurry, Tyler. Hurry. Run. No, you really should actually run. You need to pee, and you need to pee right now.

Thank God there was nobody in the bathroom. I threw the door open and jumped in front of the toilet, reaching down to unbutton my pants…I made a horrendous and terrifying discovery.

You have got to be kidding me…

Why…the fuck…did I decide to wear a belt tonight?

I’m pretty sure I groaned audibly as my drunk fingers struggled to get the son-of-a-bitch undone.

Pull it through the initial loop of my pants……….check.

Pull it through the leather belt loop……….check.

Unhook the leather from the metal……….check.

Undo the button on the jeans……….well……….

It was at this moment in my life that I found Jesus. I literally found him. He wasn’t under the couch or in the closet or behind the curtains. He was right in front of me, on top of the toilet. He had come with a gift. He had come to offer me words of truth and wisdom; words that would enlighten and inspire me. Do you know what he said?

He said this:

“It’s okay, Tyler. It’s okay.”

Thank you, Jesus. Thank you.

Fuck the button.

I’m just going to pee my pants……….

Aaaaaaand……….

I just peed my pants……….

If there was any debate before, this moment of my life made it official: I am not a real person. I am a fake, miserable, pants-peeing person. I am the scum of society, and nowhere near the level of genius I thought I was at the age of eleven. I should live underground with the Mole People in the bowels of the New York subway system.

But before I do that, I should get a good night’s sleep.

So I went back to the bedroom in my jeans, which reminded me with every step: I had peed all over them. Yummmmm.

CUT TO: The Next Morning.

I was aware of the fact that I was not in my own bed. The room looked very familiar, but it wasn’t my bedroom. I remembered that I had been instructed to stay the night at The Roundhouse, and breathed a sigh of relief, finally realizing I was in a safe place.

I looked to my side and came to another realization, that someone was sleeping next to me. Fuck.

Upon discovery of the bright red hair, I knew it was Nora. I was safe and sound. She was, after all, my freshman year friend-to-sleep-with. I reached over and rubbed her on her shoulder until she finally woke up.

It was when I leaned over to rub her shoulder that I came to the most ridiculous realization of the morning: I wasn’t wearing any pants. Or underwear.

“Hiiiii,” Nora said with mid-morning grogginess.

“Hey….”

“What time is it?” I looked at my cell phone, which was resting by my pillow.

“10:33…” I answered with about 3/4 cup tone of embarrassment.

“Shit, we have a rehearsal to be at in an hour and I need to shower and stuff before we go.” Nora sat up in a hurry. I stayed completely still. “Can you move? I need to get out of bed.”

“No.”

“What? No. Tyler we really need to go back to North Campus for rehearsal like now.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to, now move!”

“Nora?”

“Huh?”

“I’m not wearing any pants under this blanket.”

“Oh, I don’t care.”

“Or underwear.”

“…What? Ew. Why?”

“I thiiiiiink…I pissed in them.”

“……….What?”

“I’m pretty sure…that I pissed my pants last night.”

I looked over and saw, lying surreptitiously in the corner of the room, said pants. Looking like they had been shot with a water hose. A water hose of my pee.

“Can you close your eyes for a minute? Please?” I asked, feeling like the world’s biggest piece of shit.

“Yes. Yep. Yep. Go. Just do something.”

I crawled out from under the covers and ran over the my soaking wet jeans. Aside from my shirt, I was completely naked. I panicked. I had nothing to wear. I had no other choice.

I had to put the pants…and the underwear…back on.

And I did.

And after several minutes of trying to pull sopping-wet pants inside out, and back up my legs, I told Nora she could open her eyes.

“We really have to go,” she said with a pained expression on her face. I looked deep into her eyes. In them I could see no judgment, no pity, no resentment…just… empathy. Nora looked at me with an expression that said, “We are one, Tyler. We are brethren. I understand you. You have slept with me naked. When you pee-pee your pants, I pee-pee mine.”

And for that, I will always love her.

We took the bus back up to North Campus shortly thereafter. I wore my soaking wet piss pants the entire way, trying not to scream considering it was negative degrees outside and my legs were covered in pee.

From that moment on, I have kept this story restricted to the knowledge of few. And now, I want to share my secret.

I’m coming out of the closet: I got drunk and peed my pants. And put them back on.

Some of you might be asking yourself, “Why is Tyler awake at 4 in the morning?”

Others might be wondering, “I wonder if Tyler thinks I care that he’s awake at 4 in the morning…because I don’t…really care.”

In other news, Kanye West got diamonds in his bottom set of teeth. Well. That’s just another reason I refuse to listen to his music. I hear too much asinine, egotistical bullshit spewing from him to stomach. He’s like a volcano of crap. Mmmhmm. It’s four, what do you want from me? The point I’m trying to make is: How can I listen to his douchery (let alone his music) if his teeth keep clinking against the diamonds embedded in them? You have to think about these things.

Additional news on Yahoo reports that a pair of crocheted socks are going for $500 at some Manhattan boutique. Cool.

I have to get out of this country.

I’m in the worst place imaginable. Some of you might be wondering, “Does he mean that literally or figuratively? Is he bitching about his geographical coordinates or is Tyler just in one of ‘his moods?’” Others might be wondering, “How does Dancing With The Stars continue to make headline news on Yahoo.com?” I don’t have an answer for any of that shit. Sorry. Except that America sucks. Like a Hoover.

In other news, I took a Benadryl to fall asleep. Don’t worry, it’s not working, so I’m going to continue to complain about my life.

I still have to get out of this country.

America is on a steady decline. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. There’s something about our culture that makes me ill. And I’m not talking solely about Oprah or McDonald’s. Not that McDonald’s doesn’t extend far beyond America. It’s everywhere, which is gross. In fact, I’m sure Bin Laden has one in his cave, you know? Richie Rich had one in his house; I’m sure Osama does too. And Oprah. I’m not going to get too deep into Oprah, because I don’t have the words for how evil I think  know she is. I can see through that fake human shell, Oprah. You’re a fucking dragon underneath. A dragon. With halitosis instead of fire breath. Maybe just really awful-smelling fire. I know your secret. Of course, after this expose, the American government is probably going to start auditing my blog and looking for reasons to kill me. Another reason I need to move tomorrow.

I also hate learning music. And singing music. And, let’s get serious, I’m probably going to start hating listening to music next. 

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about switching career choices.

I’ve also been thinking a lot lately about Pumpkin Spice lattes from Starbucks because, like, they’re delicious and shit. 

But then I wonder if they’re international, and that keeps me from leaving the country. Someone remind me to see if there are Pumpkin Spice lattes in Spain.

Hey, has this post made you depressed yet? On the bright side, you’re probably not reading this at four in the morning because you’re too busy sleeping or something. Probably with another person. And no, that doesn’t make me jealous. I don’t like other people and I certainly don’t like sleeping with other people, so I really just can’t fathom why you’re doing it. It’s not what God intended, or something.

There, I blew off steam for thirty minutes. Here’s what I’m going to try to do now: Pee, then see if I can sleep.

Wish me luck, and don’t tell Oprah that I know she’s a halitosis dragon.

I have rekindled my love affair with running. I still totally suck at it, but I’m getting better. I have asthma, so I’ve always had shitty endurance, but now that I’ve finally gotten the hang of it, it’s becoming one of my favorite things to do. I could never, EVER do a fucking marathon, though. Nope. I’ve asked some of my runner friends how they’re able to get through something of that caliber and they tell me you eventually “get in the zone” and the run becomes almost like a meditation. Well, la-di-dah. I’m way too ADD for that shit. Here are some of the things I think about when I’m on the treadmill, somewhere in between my inhaler puffs.

*When did my shins start hurting? When did my knee start hurting? When did I turn forty? Does this happen to all 21 year olds? Would this be happening if I hadn’t accidentally drank that bottle of tequila last night? How about if I hadn’t accidentally drank that bottle of wine last night, too? I wonder if the woman on the treadmill next to me sells Percocet.

*I wonder if some people really ARE attracted to really sweaty guys. And why aren’t all of those people in this room right now? If I sweat on this fucking treadmill any more I won’t be able to read the display. Holy ballsack that is the hottest guy I have ever seen in my life. Wait, where are you going, hot guy? Fuck. Oh shit, he’s back. I wonder if he’s scoping me out and wanted a second look. Oh. Nope. He has a basketball. I lose.

*I go to the University of fucking Michigan. WHY isn’t the gym air conditioned? Why do I have to strategically place one of the four floor fans in the room right in front of my treadmill? This blows……. What the hell is she doing? If that bitch doesn’t step away from my fan I’m going to throw my keys at her. I put that there for a reason, sweetheart. I HAVE ASTHMA.

*I’m going to try to run on an incline now. Okay, that was fun, back to zero.

*”Rainbow High” really IS the best song to run to. It’s easier to run when I’m acting the song I’m listening to. It’s like I’m not even thinking about how exhausted I am because I’m too busy yelling at servants to dress me. Yeah….Lauren Bacall me, asshole. 

*If I make it to thirty minutes, I can probably order Papa John’s when I’m drunk tonight and not feel THAT guilty about it tomorrow. Maybe. No, fuck it. Twenty five and I’ll settle for Jimmy John’s. 

*I wonder if the woman on the elliptical in front of me knows just HOW severe her swamp-ass is. Wow. I’ve never really thought about it, but swamp ass really is a serious disease. It plagues our nation. Probably other nations, too. And affects so many, directly and indirectly. Do I have swamp ass? No. Phew. 

*I wonder if I should do weights when I’m finishing runni—nope, I’m going to Chipotle.

*I don’t understand how people can go running shirtless. I don’t think anyone should go running shirtless. That’s just so selfish. Congratulations on not wobbling at all when you run. Your abs look great, I’m very happy for you, asshole. Now put your damn shirt back on.

*I wonder how MUCH I would wobble if I ran shirtless. Maybe I’ll try it in front of the mirror in my room tonight. I probably don’t want to see that, so never-mind.

*I wonder if I would fall off the treadmill if I tried to change the song on my iPod. I guess I’ll try it and find out. That wasn’t so bad. Treadmills are, like, really dangerous.

*Why is this bitch next to me running on 8? I’m only on 6. Who do you think you are, Ponytail? Witch. I wonder what she would do if I walked over and pressed the down arrow on her treadmill. 

*I’m not wiping off my machine. I’m going home. Screw courtesy to other guests. They all have swamp-ass.

1. Wow, I haven’t updated my blog in a long time. Let’s see what shit I can pull out of thin air.

2. People shouldn’t ever work without some sort of caffeine. It’s dangerous and irresponsible. You think surgeons perform open-heart surgery without an espresso shot beforehand? Fuck, no. They slam that shit and THEN put their O.R. scrubs on. With shakey hands.

3. If you’re walking down the street and a homeless person approaches you, it might be rude to hold your cell phone to your ear and say, “Do you mind? I’m on the phone with my realtor.” But you should do it anyway.

4. If you have a bedroom with holes in your wall, don’t buy a pet rat. But if you name your pet rat something pretty like “India,” she’ll probably respect you enough to come back after she runs away into that hole.  

5. If you are a host at a restaurant, and your name is Tyler Jones, you should try not to take it personally every time someone walks into the restaurant. They’re probably not coming in to eat just to make your life more difficult, no matter how much you think that’s the case. (You’re still allowed to treat them like dickweeds, because they are.)

6. Absolutely everyone alive is a fucking idiot.

7. Human beings are designed to be completely self-sufficient. Forget that Adam and Eve crap; I think the need for a mate is conditioned into our psyches by society. People need to stop feeling sorry for themselves and embrace single life— not having to worry about someone else’s daily shit is such a damn gift.

8. I still refuse to believe that girls poop. Their food just absorbs into nutrients, right? If you are a girl and you fart in front of me, you’re totally busted because I’ve discovered your deep, dark secret: you’re a crab person. And I’m going to boil you for dinner. (WHAT?!)

9: Don’t old people kind of suck? What’s with that sense of self-entitlement? I don’t give two shits if you’ve gotten through two world wars, stop being a ballsack and use your manners. That being said, I LOOOOVE sweet old people. More than anything.

10: It drives me crazy when people say they “don’t drink.” What?! Who are you? Shut the hell up and take this shot with me. Now. And another one. And another one. And I’ll drink your next one for you. And even worse is when they say “Oh, I can’t drink that wine, I’ve already had liquor.” That “Beer before liquor…” shit has ruined the world. It all goes to the same place, so pass me the corkscrew. And cheers, queermo.

I have a few things I want to talk about today, including some things I hate. Is anyone surprised? Is anyone excited? Just me. Great.

I hate a lot of commercials. Here are some commercials I find especially retarded.

The Oreo commercial of the little boy with his “dad.” 

I find this commercial particularly disturbing, probably due to the increase in online sexual predators. Particularly ones who find little kids in chat rooms and have inappropriate (Oreo-eating video chat) conversations. Am I the only one who saw this commercial for the first time and didn’t breathe until the little boy said “Goodnight, Dad”?! Why the hell is the dad looking at his son like that? Can you stop smirking behind your cookie, sir?! And can you please not raise your eyebrows at your child like that? It’s creepy. Also, why the hell are you two eating cookies together on Skype? That isn’t some sweet father/son bonding activity. Get over it. Or get it together. Or take him fishing. Anything. Just stop licking cookies at each other.

The Yoplait commercial series with those two obnoxious, feminist women.

I HATE these women. Probably because of the white lady’s voice placement. Way too pingy. Way too high school girl. It’s obvious who their target audience is, to an obnoxious degree. Chocolate-covered heels? Every menstruating woman’s ears just perked up at an alarming rate. I also just want to remind you ladies that you’re basically having an orgasm over your YOPLAIT. What is your problem? Stop being annoying and get boyfriends so you don’t sit around talking about yogurt (which, for the record, could not POSSIBLY be better than dating a masseuse). Unless you’re both lesbians. You’re probably both lesbians.

Finally…. the Five Hour Energy Commercial…

This. Commercial. Kills. Me. I hate this guy SO MUCH. Please notice how he finishes EVERY line (which are all delivered on the same pitch pattern) with a little cock of his head and pursed “I-told-you-so” lips. I pointed this out to my co-workers and now every time the commercial is on TV they tell me my “favorite commercial is on.” This guy is an ass. And he looks sort of like a very attractive monkey. Who does the same thing over and over and over and over and over.

Favorite story of today:

I was out walking with Nora Menken (for anyone who is completely cut-off from the world (and yet, strangely, reading my blog), Nora’s father is the Oscar Award-winning composer of just about every Disney musical ever) earlier, and we ran into Carlos in the diag. We sit and shoot the shit for a few minutes, all the while noticing this group of very awkward-looking high school girls who are dressed up in Mickey Mouse ears, golden parachute pants, basically anything awkward that you could conceive of. They were standing on the steps of Shapiro filming some kind of terrible movie (for the record: I wouldn’t have normally been this hard on a group of misfits, but these ones were basically standing around waiting for people to make fun of them) with horrible writing and even horrible-er acting. I still don’t know what the hell it is they were making a movie of, but it probably won’t be seen in theaters any time soon. In any case, Nora and Carlos and I judged them. Hard. And then, out of the blue, we all realize that they have started to do an Aladdin spin-off, as one of the sad girls spontaneously bursts into “A Whole New World.” Nora’s head drops between her knees, and Carlos and I pee our pants. That was my favorite part of today.

I hope everyone has a wonderful Memorial Day.

Love,

Tyler

Yesterday was one of the worst nights of my life. 

Rachel Bahler, fitness guru extraordinaire, invited me to go to her Bikram Yoga class with her. Beginning students get the first ten days for a mere $20, so I figured I might as well blow my money on something healthy (and hipster-y). Additionally, I love going to yoga classes because the teachers have always been really complimentary and eat up the fact that I come into the class more flexible than most of the advanced students. Obviously I love to be put on this pedestal of hyper-mobility and accept all of their compliments, despite the fact that I am completely undeserving of any of them (all credit really goes to my mom and her weirdly flexible hips). 

I knew beforehand that Bikram took place in an especially sweltering studio, but I figured I had grown up in Texas and survived those summers; this shit had nothing on me. Turns out I couldn’t have been wronger.

The following is a recount of my first (and last) Bikram experience from last night, exactly as I remember it.

8:20: Rachel and I walk through the glass doors and into the yoga studio. Hello, sauna! Excuse me?! It was as though I’d skipped the next sixty years of my life and walked directly into hell. It was then that it occurred to me I never actually went outside during Texas summers. Because if you went outside you got heat stroke. And died (this is foreshadowing).

8:23:  I realize the entire group of students is more than half naked, while I am wearing basketball shorts and a teeshirt. I realize I am setting myself up for failure if I don’t conform to the dress code. I end up taking most of my clothes off and sit in my basketball shorts, waiting for class to start. Luckily, I had eaten Chipotle a few hours beforehand and am completely bloated from the faux-Mexican goodness that was digesting in my stomach. Luckily, there aren’t any attractive people in the room (Bahler and her four-pack excluded) that make me feel self-conscious.

8:25: Class doesn’t start for another five minutes and I am dripping sweat (see: I am the personification of Hurricane Katrina). Rachel lies calmly on her yoga mat, not even DAMP from perspiration. Rachel is rude. I express regret for having entered the room from hell before class has started. Rachel reminds me I “didn’t have to” go in early, and that “it is good to get our bodies acclimated.” I resent her for her logic and write her out of my life forever. 

8:30: Our instructor enters the room and starts to lead us through some ridiculous breathing exercise. I call it ridiculous because I look stupid doing it…

8:35: We move onto some “Standing Poses.” “Standing Pose” is French for “Tyler adjusts his body to look as skinny as possible, despite technical accuracy.”

8:40: I keep falling out of my poses. I am disappointed in myself for not being the yoga god I had recognized myself to be in the seventh grade. I remind myself it was my first time doing Bikram. I tell myself to shut the fuck up.

8:42: I am told to lock my knees and grip the floor with my toes. I wonder what Melissa Beck-Matjias would say about the fact that I am continually being told to lock my hyper-extended knees.

8:45: I look to my right and see a female student who is probably a good fifty or sixty pounds heavier, and three inches shorter than me. Big Girl. She has obviously been taking the class for a long time, and is doing the moves exceptionally well. She’s barely sweating. She becomes my inspiration and source of frustration.

8:50:  I fall on my face repeatedly. I mean…it must be the carpet…and the towel I am standing on, which is completely drenched in my own sweat. I’m used to hard-wood floors, so….that’s obviously it.

9:00: The instructor tells us to grab our ankles. I do so.

9:01: I am unable to keep a firm grasp on my ankle because my body is so slippery. I can’t balance because my feet are so covered in sweat. I wonder what any of my ex’s would think if they saw how pathetic I was at this moment in my life. I wish I had never been born. 

9:05: We are told to do a glorified ponche, with our back leg bent. I fall out of it. Who is surprised? I look at Big Girl. She is doing it perfectly. I am pissed.

9:18: My water bottle has been empty for about ten minutes. It suddenly dawns on me how overheated I am. I feel overwhelmed, dizzy, nauseous, generally annoyed how good at this Big Girl is. I look over at Rachel and gave her an “If I don’t leave soon I’m going to vomit all over you” look. She calmly reassures me that if I need to, I can leave the room. I decided to stick it out for as long as I can.

9:19: “I’m gonna go outside,” I announce to Rachel. I am embarrassed to have barely made it through half of my first class, but exhaustion and heat stroke are clearly two different matters, and I don’t want my epitaph to read: Died Doing Bikram Yoga. That’s not very heroic. 

9:20: I tell the instructor, “I think I need to leave.” 

“Why do you think you need to leave?” she asks.

“Because…I’m about to die,” I answer truthfully.

“Don’t leave. Just lie down and watch and breathe. It’s normal to feel overwhelmed your first time. We’ve all been there. There are only about twenty-five minutes left.” 

She obviously has no clue what she’s talking about. Nobody has ever been in as much pain as I am. Nobody, ever. Obviously. I am thoroughly pissed. Don’t worry, there are only TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES left.

9:21: Rachel gives me the most sympathetic look I have ever seen a human being offer another human. I lie on my back and stare up at the ceiling, thoroughly embarrassed at the way I’m going to die. I try to breathe through the pain I’m in. I end up inhaling wet, stagnant, 110 degree air, and whatever fumes are lingering on my borrowed yoga mat from the hundreds of people who have used it before me. I hate all of them.

9:25: Other people in the class are sitting down and resting. This makes me feel less pathetic. Unfortunately they get back up and keep going. I feel pathetic again.

9:30: I look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot and my entire body is red from heat. I contemplate going as a Bikram Yoga Victim for Halloween.

9:35: The teacher asks how I’m doing, which strikes me as funny. What a bitch. She tells me “Nobody has ever died in this room before.” I tell her that is reassuring. I contemplate throwing a handful of sweat at her, but that would require too much energy.

9:40: I continue to switch positions on my mat, sitting on my knees, cross-legged, lying on my back, stomach. I realize my efforts are completely in vain as long as I’m lying underneath the heating vent. I continue to feel my pulse to see if it is inordinately fast. I think about how saunas have warning signs on them, and wonder how long their suggested time limit is. I think of bringing this point up to the instructor, but decide against it when I see that Big Girl is still going strong. If she’s still alive, I will make it…

9:45: I can’t keep focus on anything. I’m dizzy and can hardly make out the numbers on the clock anymore. I wonder if I will have any cool heat hallucinations. I recall one of my friends telling me how he had spoken to Barbra Streisand when taking acid once. I hope the same thing happens to me, but I don’t think she’d ever come into a room this hot.

9:50: Time is moving at an unprecedentedly slow speed. Rachel keeps pushing her water bottle closer and closer to me, trying to get me to drink from it. I write her back into my life, considering she is sustaining it. I don’t know where I am anymore. I have also never been so publicly naked. I pull my polyester basketball shorts as far up as I can. Screw what is socially acceptable. I am going to look so awful when I die.

9:55: I feel bad for finishing Rachel’s bottle of water. Sorry, Rach…

10:00: Class has ended. I have trouble standing up and leaving the room, and collapse in front of a fan in the locker room. 

10:03: My instructor tells me to come back tomorrow because my body will adjust to the heat quickly. She congratulates me and tells me “Good job.” I can think of about ten million things I would like to say to her. Thank you is not one of them. I feel lucky to have made it out of this alive. I pass Big Girl in the lobby. I ignore her.

I’m never going back there.

Douche.

Dear (7) followers, I haven’t neglected you. I’ve just been busy as balls. Or at least, as busy as balls could be.

I have a job now. I am a “Host” at a restaurant in downtown Ann Arbor. Upon explaining my job title to a certain douchey friend of mine, he replied, “Oh, so you’re a sixteen year old girl.” Because I’m “not even a waiter.” Well…. fuck off, douchey friend… If it pays the rent, I will be a sixteen year old girl until the cows come home. Or at least until the next “Twilight” fad comes along; then I’m getting the hell out of that demographic. 

Other highlights of my life right now include: Working out almost daily (I know, I’m incredible), juicing (I know, I’m so healthy and hip and trendy) and cleaning Mount Olympus (I know, black mold can kill you). I called poison control the other day because I accidentally used bleach and Lysol together while I was scrubbing the bath tub. Apparently the bleach and ammonia combined release deadly gasses, so I wanted to be safe…

Me: Hi, I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t dying.

Poison Control Lady: Well, you’re talking to me on the phone right now so I don’t think you’re dying.

Thanks, Poison Control Lady.

I’ve been getting back into running. For the past five years or so I’ve had an on-again/off-again relationship with running, usually stopping because my knees start to get screwed up or I just RUN out of time to do it. Luckily, time is certainly a luxury I have right now and I’m trying to make good use of it. Running is freeing and exhilarating and it’s doing wonders for my stress and anxiety and even more wonders for my love handles (thank you for the love handles, Mom and Dad (I never said that)). There’s nothing quite like hitting your feet against the ground in syncopation with the music you’re listening to. Even if the music is Jojo. Remember Jojo? How did she know so much about love at fourteen? What a gal.

I paid sixty-three dollars for an asthma inhaler yesterday. That fucking sucked.

You know something I hate? Tupperware. I fucking HATE how you can never find the damn top to the container you’re looking for. And then you put the mismatched pieces back in the cabinet and sure as you are born, they slide off whatever you set them on top of and land on your head and fall all over the floor. And you bend over to pick them up and while you’re bending over, MORE tupperware falls on you. Surely I’m not the only one who this happens to… Anybody? I fucking hate tupperware.

Great news: Noah got his eyesight back! Thanks, Dr. Oliver. The bad news? Dr. Oliver and Luke are hooking up now. What is wrong with my boys? Such a problem. 

I bought eight bottles of Charles Schwabb at Trader Joe’s today. Excellent.

This post sucked.

Tyler

I guess I’m patriotic. I love my country. That doesn’t mean it’s not dying…because I do think America is dying. But I love it because it has a national anthem that is absurdly difficult to sing. It has been said that Francis Scott Key, the “Star Spangled Banner’s” author, penned the song whilst sitting in a jail, listening to the “bombs bursting in air” outside. What elementary schools don’t teach you about the tune is that its melody is actually derived from a British drinking song. Yes, a drinking song. That means you have to be shit-house drunk to be able to cover the near-two-octave range the bitchy little diddy spans. I’ve decided to attach several of my favorite performances of the Star Spangled Banner being performed somewhat… incorrectly. Enjoy!

My friend Carlos sent me this video. Carlos isn’t actually an American citizen, so he found this especially funny. Please notice Carl Lewis’ option down on “land of the free,” and the immediate disapproval from the audience. Also notice the commentary from Carl over how terrible he realizes it is…

This one sucks. Watch it.

There is also a large debate over the difficulty of the lyrics, and how normal people, like cops, aren’t able to remember them.

This next woman is Canadian. She can’t remember the words either, but it’s probably because she’s Canadian. It is also proof that the “Star Spangled Banner” shouldn’t be sung on ice.

Finally, the cherry on the Sundae, and my personal favorite rendition of the Star Spangled Banner, EVER.

I am a Youtube addict. It is my religion, my boyfriend, my life source and my Vicodin. 

I have 367 videos under my “favorites,” and I can’t remember what 90% of them are. But you better believe when I’m having a bad day, when all of my friends hate me, when I crack on a high note, Youtube lends me its shoulder and lets me cry on it. It’s selfless like that.

Since I have 367 videos of golden material, I don’t feel any guilt in admitting that I have a favorite amongst my favorites. Actually, these videos aren’t even IN my favorites. I’m not ashamed to say that I follow two characters from “As The World Turns” religiously. Their names are Luke and Noah. They are daytime TV’s first gay couple. They are patient, caring and understanding. But I only watch them because they’re also totally hot.

The funny part of their existence on Youtube is the fact that their scenes are uploaded in complete isolation from the rest of the series by a crazed fan named LukeNoahFan. I owe him a lot of my feelings of loneliness and inadequacy when it comes to relationships. He has literally stolen days of my life away from me, which I have spent watching and re-watching Luke and Noah fight, make up, fight, make up and get into sticky situations all the while. Situational highlights include:

*Noah marries an Islamic woman to help keep her in the country, straining his relationship with Luke.

*Luke accidentally pushes his pregnant mother down the stairs.

*Luke becomes paralyzed when Noah’s father shoots him.

*Noah goes blind when a firework blows up in his face.

What. The. Fuck. Soap writers are BRILLIANT.

The other wonderful thing about Luke and Noah as a Youtube phenomenon is the fire they ignite among thousands of fat, lonely, sad fangirls. And fat, lonely, sad fangays, for that matter. They spend a lot of time uploading their favorite random Luke and Noah moments. Some of the highlights include: 

“Luke Helps Noah With His Tie” (You can see where that’s going…)

“Take My Lips- Luke And Noah” (A “beautiful” (read: pathetic) tribute music video set to clips of Luke And Noah).

“Noah And Luke’s First Kiss- In Public!” (In PUBLIC!)

Included at the end of this post is “Luke and Noah THE LONG AWAITED KISS! 6 Kisses!,” which is exactly what it sounds like. But rest assured, if you are that desperate to see them, there are also videos of their first love making scene, their EIGHTEENTH kiss, and (get this) their TWENTY-SEVENTH KISS. It’s remarkable. Don’t let them take over your life like they took over mine.

-Tyler

Unfortunately I have something very serious to talk about right now. It’s a national health emergency that seems to be devoid of a particular demographic. This renders, us as a nation, nay, as a planet, completely hopeless in the fight against such a devastating disease.

Of course I’m talking about “Bieber Fever.” Nobody is safe.

While I’ve never been a fan of his, despite hearing his name praised repeatedly by the delusional Katie Madison, I realized I was up Shit’s Creek the minute I watched his first appearance on “Chelsea Lately.” I am unable to handle how smooth-talking, quick-witted and charming he is at sixteen. Yes, six loyal readers…I became a fangirl. I want to be just like Bieber when I grow up.

May God have mercy on all of our souls,

Tyler