by Lianne Oelke
DFS
Just today someone asked to take a selfie with you.
JS
Who cares?
DFS
Like I said, you’re gaining quite the fan base. With great power comes great responsibility.
JS
I don’t want more responsibility. I’m struggling enough as it is getting to class on time.
DFS
You should probably spend less time taking selfies, then.
JS
Being ambushed by my program adviser doesn’t count.
FFAFFMay13
Another note from Sociology.
R: Are you going to Jenna’s party tonight?
JS: I didn’t know she was having one. I thought we had a challenge tonight.
R: After the challenge. It’s Alexander’s birthday.
JS: I didn’t know he was having one.
R: You should stop living under rocks. It can’t be too comfortable.
JS: Yeah, maybe.
R: I don’t usually like parties, but I hear this one is going to be interesting.
People who are going to be there:
1. Alexander
2. All the crew
3. Alexander’s cousins
4. Alexander’s friends
5. Jenna Park
6. Everyone else.
JS: Lists make everything more epic.
R: Even Jenna?
JS: . . . Jenna Park came out of the womb at maximum epic capacity, which means there was never any room for improvement. I stand corrected.
I have fifteen minutes to kill before AP is ready to interview me. I think Marc is in the interview cupboard now. Everyone else is supposed to sit in their room and wait quietly. AP just finished explaining the rules for the prize challenge. We’re watching an episode of The Bachelor. Every time the bachelor says
—incredible woman
—being open
—I can see a future with this woman
—here for the right reasons
or
—I’m developing strong feelings for some of these women
each team has to take one shot and eat one mini-hamburger between the two of them. The same goes for every time a contestant turns the date activity into a metaphor for her relationship (e.g., falling for him, diving in, taking steps), every helicopter tour, and every time Chris Harrison makes an appearance for no reason.
Bonnie and I watch The Bachelor all the time for fun, so I know this will be INTENSE.
After The Bachelor, we’ll play a game of spoons. We’ll sit in the living room holding four cards each, passing one card at a time to the person on the left. As soon as someone gets two pairs, they try and grab a spoon. And as soon as the first person tries to grab a spoon, all the spoons are fair game. Whoever doesn’t get one (there are only three) loses. The loser and his/her partner don’t get two tickets to the hockey game tomorrow night. The winners do. Also, the spoons will be in the basement.
I won and I won last time too, so I got to choose my partner this time and I chose Marc. Robbie thought we’d be partners because we made an agreement, and so did I, the way his eyes looked at me. Neither of us has been to an NHL game, and I want to go because it’s ABOUT TIME. I couldn’t drink on camera, but they didn’t know that, so I ate burgers. But Marc is a tank and tanked his way through The Bachelor and held my arm past Robbie and into the basement. Robbie didn’t get a spoon, but that’s okay because I did. Robbie ate most of their hamburgers because he didn’t drink much either and doesn’t want the hamburgers to make a mess on the floor. We’re at Jenna’s party now because Jenna is an INCREDIBLE WOMAN AND NO ONE WANTED TO LOOK AT CHAUNT’ELLE’S VOMIT ANYMORE. No cameras here, all off-duty, so I had a beer or two. I’m hiding in Jenna’s bedroom now because of all the noise. I just realized I’m sitting next to a condom wrapper. I think Robbie hates me.
SatMay14
The only thing worse than admitting to being a jerk is being a jerk and not admitting to it. I didn’t choose Robbie because I wanted to win. And I won. I am a jerk. But writing that in here isn’t admitting much. At the time, winning was what I wanted more than anything, and I did what was necessary to make it happen. I should feel proud. And I do. But I also might be feeling something else: guilt. It’s too bad, really. I thought I outgrew that months ago.
All I want is to watch the Flames beat the shit out of the Blackhawks in a crowded and incredibly loud arena, then congratulate the captain in person and maybe go for a few drinks. Possibly bear one or two of his children. We’ll see. But I don’t think I’ll do any of that now. It seems the shriveled-up, stunted corner of my mind known as my conscience still receives blood flow.
Robbie left Jenna’s house before I woke up. Whoever said that I could hold my liquor is an idiot and deserves to be shot. Lifting my head off the couch cushion (and holding it upright for the next hour) was the hardest thing I’ve done in a while. Someone left Advil on the coffee table (a kind and generous HOOcap, no doubt), and I swallowed a few before splashing water on my face, pulling my hair into a knot, and borrowing one of Jenna’s shirts. She won’t mind. I discovered several bruises on my arm. I remember Marc pushing Robbie and Robbie falling as we were running downstairs, but I can’t remember falling myself. When I left Jenna’s house, everyone else was still asleep. No cameras followed me.
I walked in the door to find Hinkfuss licking a half-eaten hamburger on the stairs. The house was a lot messier than I remembered. Trashed would be a better word to describe it. I wanted to find Robbie—I assumed he would be in the sanitary haven that is his bedroom—so I could give him my ticket for the game. Symbolically, of course, because Alexander Park still had them. He was too clever to give them to us last night. I was debating how to apologize as sincerely and quickly as I could so I could get back to Jenna’s house and fall asleep again (our house smelled terrible) when I heard something move in the kitchen. I walked through the archway, and there was Robbie, on his knees facing the wall, bright yellow rubber gloves up to his elbows, scrubbing god knows what off the baseboards.
Every word I was planning to say died on its way to my mouth. He looked up at me for a moment, expressionless, before turning back to the wall. Not even half the kitchen was clean, and for all I know he’d been there for hours. I tried again to say something—even if it was only “sorry,” I wanted to spit it out—but I couldn’t. I watched his arm move up and down, up and down, and realized how much it must be eating away at him. Sure, the house was disgusting, but Marc or Chaunt’Elle or I could live with it. I could only guess how incredibly frustrating it was for Robbie to hardly ever feel comfortable in his own home. It struck me how unfair it all was. I wanted to punch something for him.
I gave up trying to say anything. Instead I looked under the sink for another pair of gloves. I filled an ice cream pail full of scalding hot water and disinfectant and set to work on the stove. Every now and then I’d look back at how Robbie was cleaning—I wanted to do a good enough job so he wouldn’t have to clean my area again. Following his lead, I scrubbed the stove twice, emptied and refilled my bucket, and scrubbed it again. I scrubbed the cabinets, the countertops, the windowsill. I removed all the food from the fridge, threw some of it out (every item of Marc’s may or may not have ended up in the garbage), scrubbed the shelves twice, put everything back. I disinfected each magnet on the fridge and cleaned the doors underneath. The cleaner got inside my gloves and made my knuckles bleed, so I washed my hands and put rubber bands around my wrists to keep the water out. When we finished the kitchen, we started on the living room. Neither of us was hungry. Neither of us said a word.
Nearly all of the food-stained clothes and magazines and dog-eared textbooks and half-eaten bags of processed food in the living room were Marc’s. We picked it all up with our rubber gloves and held it with outstretched arms and threw it into Marc’s room. We closed his door and didn’t look back.
The dining room came next. Walls were washed a
nd chairs wiped down, the vomit cleaned up, and the carpets sprayed. While I vacuumed upstairs, Robbie started on the hallway and bathroom downstairs.
We didn’t notice the cameras until the sun went down. They might have been there for hours. It’s funny how easy it is to forget them now.
When the basement was vacuumed and the trash taken out, I scrubbed my hands till they bled again, loosely bandaged my knuckles, and sat down next to Robbie on his bed. I was about to say something—the first words I’d spoken all day—but just then the front door slammed shut, shaking the entire house. We could hear Marc from downstairs.
MARC
Holy shit, man! I thought we trashed the place! What happened? Did the producers do this? Fucking awesome! [And so on.]
JS
(Is there anything you don’t make worse by existing?)
Two loud thumps sounded above us, and I could FEEL the mud where his boots hit the wall. We cringed.
R
He goes next.
I just nodded.
Marc gave Robbie his ticket when he figured out what had happened. And by figured out, I mean one of the HOOcaps had to tell him No, I am not your maid, and you couldn’t have paid me enough to clean up that shit. Chaunt’Elle was grateful too, I think, but all she did was say thank you.
R and I went to the game tonight and took as much pleasure as was appropriate in winning a playoff game. I didn’t even miss not getting knocked up by the captain because I had such a nice time with Robbie. The cameras were only around for postgame burgers and shakes at Peter’s Drive-In, so we even had a bit of privacy. We didn’t talk about the show, or bitch about Marc, or plan anything. We mostly talked about each other.
I came home to find cat pee on my bed, but I can wash everything tomorrow. I grabbed a sleeping bag from the closet, and I’m comfortable on the floor. Hinkfuss is sleeping beside me, and I don’t even mind.
TueMay17
Note from Sociology:
R: Why does the prof keep bringing up the show in class?
JS: I don’t know. Likes reality TV, I guess.
R: HOO is substandard. Even for reality TV.
JS: Ha. Yeah. It’s no Survivor.
R: A used car isn’t bad, but it’s no million dollars.
JS: I wish.
R: What would you do with a million dollars?
JS: Pay off student loans. Buy twenty pairs of jeggings with pockets. And a steak dinner. You?
R: Several steak dinners. Maybe a modest house with a mountain view where I could sit alone and ponder the empty space in my heart that money can’t reach.
JS: Ha.
R: I’m not kidding.
JS: Oh.
R: Of course I’m kidding.
JS: Right on.
R: But not really.
Our souls are made of the same stuff.
I had to take the Myers-Briggs personality test for Psych. The results:
Introverted
INtuitive
Thinker
Perceiver
Apparently, as an INTP, I have “trouble appearing warm and supportive to those around me. I tend to devalue emotion in other people as well as myself. Intimate relationships do not come easily to me. I often overlook simple maintenance tasks, such as managing finances and dressing appropriately.”
This sums everything up nicely. My hypothetical psychology studies might be redundant.
FFAFFMay20
The parents wanted me to go to youth group tonight because they were doing something or whatever, but I said no because there was an Elbow River costume party and I went to that. The other contestants and several HOOcaps were there too. Bonnie and Tegan came. I invited Tom as well, but it wasn’t really his scene. Bonnie dressed as a burly hockey player, and I love her. Of course I didn’t want to wear a costume. Of course I had to—so many contractual obligations! I bought a dragon tattoo from the dollar store, but I fucked it up somehow, so I went as the Girl Without a Dragon Tattoo. No one got it. Some girl dressed as a taco won for best costume. Chaunt’Elle came in second as a slutty dentist. I couldn’t drink in front of the cameras because I promised Mr. Dubs, so I had to be suuuuuuper sneaky about it. Bonnie is a good friend. She distracted AP while I filled a water bottle with tequila. We did shots in the bathroom. Just the sneakiest. We almost got kicked out. Not because we weren’t sneaky enough. It was because Jenna came across Bonnie and Tegan making out after I told her they were missing youth group to be here. At least I think that’s how it started. All that I really heard Bonnie say was “She’s a motherfucking national treasure.” Whenever Bonnie starts going on about Céline, it’s usually time to go.
SunMay22
Pulled my first college all-nighter, and I’ve aged ten years in ten hours. I feel good about what I wrote, but maybe I’m only happy to be finished.
JS
HELLO, ACADEMIC SUCCESS!!!!! PLEASED TO FINALLY MEET YOU.
ACADEMIC SUCCESS
Fuck off.
MonMay23
Sister fish and blue bird fly,
Trees devour cups of pie,
Born as velvet, steel I die
—word magnet poem by me, on the fridge
Went out for supper with R and a couple people from school. Two academic-looking guys and one generically pretty girl. The girl was flirting with R all night. I couldn’t tell if he was flirting back. I’m clever enough to recognize when I’m jealous, but it makes me feel stupid all the same.
TueMay24
I got my first piece of fan mail today. So many new experiences this week. A postcard from the Elbow River gift shop with the #hashtags logo on the front. The back read:
Hi Sinner! Just thought I’d say the show is all right. If I was a betting man I’d bet on you. I can’t tell if you’re quiet and crazy or mysterious and level-headed. It’s cool that I can’t tell. But I was wondering, what does a typical day look like for you? It’s hard to say from the show. I’m not a creepy stalker I swear, but I’m interested in psychology and the effects a reality show would have on a competitor. Any illumination you would care to share with me would be appreciated.
Sincerely,
a Fan (James)
I bought a pack of stationery from the gift shop between classes and wrote my reply:
Dear James,
Thank you for your interest in my personal life. I’ve never had a Fan before, and I am moderately pleased to have you. As requested, below is a somewhat accurate account of an average day in my life. From one budding psychologist to another.
7:00 a.m.: Wake up.
7:05 a.m.: Go for a run. Run run run.
7:33 a.m.: Wait for Chaunt’Elle to get out of the shower. Tell myself I’ll wake up earlier than her tomorrow. Realize I’m lying to myself. Realize inauthenticity is not a good way to start my day.
7:35 a.m.: Existential angst.
7:45 a.m.: Shower.
8:00 a.m.: Get dressed.
8:03 a.m.: Change my clothes for the third time. Bemoan my vanity.
8:05 a.m.: Existential angst.
8:10 a.m.: Coffee and chitchat with Chaunt’Elle and Robbie.
8:30 a.m.: Catch a bus.
8:55 a.m.: Arrive in class.
9:00 a.m.: Pay attention and doodle.
12:00 p.m.: Have lunch. Answer fan mail.
1:00 p.m.: Class. Pay attention and doodle. Daydream about food.
4:15 p.m.: Catch a bus.
4:45 p.m.: Arrive at work.
5:00 p.m.: Work.
5:30 p.m.: Arrange display of soup cans.
7:00 p.m.: Assist the elderly with heavy bags.
8:30 p.m.: Work. Work work work.
8:50 p.m.: Time stands still.
9:30 p.m.: Arrive home and put recently purchased food items in mini-fridge. Wonder how long they will last before someone eats them. Bemoan the transient nature of food items.
9:40 p.m.: Existential angst.
9:50 p.m.: Interview for the show.
10:00 p.m.: Intensive and u
ninterrupted studying.
11:30 p.m.: Chat with Robbie.
12:00 midnight: Sleep.
Regards,
J. Sinner
WedMay25
I grabbed a coffee with Bonnie and Tom after classes. We’ve been meaning to get together for a while now, but if I’m not busy with the show, they’re busy with school and youth group. Our lives are slipping out of sync. Bonnie is trying to start a food drive at the school to help the homeless, and Tom is overpreparing himself for university in the fall. Once again, I considered telling him about the show. But I didn’t. I don’t even know why. Anyway, they were too excited about grad to pry the details of my life from me. I was kind of hoping that if I didn’t think about graduation, it would go away. But I can’t ignore it completely, now that I’ve promised them I’d go. It’s next week already. All the conference centers in the city are booked up with grad ceremonies at the end of June, so James Fowler books theirs earlier. Anticlimactic, I know. But I’ll be there. Yahoo.