I Hate Myselfie

by Shane Dawson

  Doctor: Hello, Shane.

  Me: Hey. What’s going on?

  Doctor: So you had a little bit of an episode, didn’t you?

  Me: I don’t remember. Oh God, did I kill someone? My mom always said I reminded her of one of those kids who could snap one day.

  Doctor: No, you passed out. You were severely dehydrated, but don’t worry, we are giving you lots of fluids.

  Me: Oh. Ok, that’s fine.

  Doctor: Fine?

  Me: Ya, it happens all the time. I pass out like once a month pretty much. The ER by my house and I are friends on MySpace.

  Doctor: Why do you pass out? How is your diet?

  Me: Um . . . not great.

  Doctor: I’d like you to tell me. I want to understand what’s going on here.

  Me: Well . . . I eat ok. Chicken and veggies. It’s the fake sugar that’s kind of a situation.

  Doctor: How much fake sugar are you eating?

  Me: Two hundred fifty packets a day. Usually a couple gallons of iced tea. Sometimes a twelve-pack of diet soda.

  The expression on his face will forever be burned on my brain. He looked like he was having a That’s So Raven vision, but instead of seeing something funny between him and his kooky redheaded friend Chelsea, he was seeing me dead.

  Me: I know. It’s pretty bad.

  Doctor: You need to get off that ASAP. It’s extremely bad for you. How much water do you drink?

  Me: I swallow some by accident when I brush my teeth?

  Doctor: Shane, I’m going to share something with you that I haven’t even told your family. When you came in here today you were so dehydrated that you were inches away from slipping into a coma. If you had waited a few more hours to come in you would probably be in one right now.

  Me: Oh my God. Really?

  Doctor: Your entire insides were drier than a potato chip. Your brain was malfunctioning, which is why you were sitting in a public sink trying to shit out the devil.

  Me: WHAT?

  Doctor: It’s serious, Shane. Really, really serious.

  That hit me hard. It wasn’t just about me anymore, it was about everyone in my life. If I were to end up in a coma or, even worse, dead, it would affect so many people. The taste of that sweet sugary powder wasn’t worth it anymore. I know the old saying “Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels.” Well, nothing tastes as good as being alive either. From that moment forward I decided to get off the packet once and for all. But I want to be clear: it wasn’t just the fake sugar that was causing me to go to the hospital. It was everything related to it. I was drinking gallons of iced tea every day because it tasted so good with Splenda in it. Iced tea is insanely dehydrating. Combine that with the fact that I hadn’t had actual water in a year, and you get a recipe for coma. I also wasn’t eating right and hadn’t been for a long time. I would starve myself and then go on binges and eat crazy amounts of frozen yogurt and ranch dressing. Not together. I’m mentally sick but not that sick.

  So I started changing my diet and got on a normal routine, but the road hasn’t been easy. At twenty-six years old I still struggle every day with my addictions. All I want to do is get a big gallon of ice cream and lie in bed all day and watch Netflix, but I can’t. I don’t want my addictions to rule my life. This is a huge reason why I don’t drink or do any kind of drugs. I can’t imagine what my life would be like if I tried cocaine. I’m sure my house would be super clean and I’d be way funnier to hang out with, but the side effects wouldn’t be worth it. I think one day I might be able to have just one packet of Splenda and be ok, or have just one drink and not turn into a raging alcoholic. But I’m not there yet. Right now I’m just living one daily vlog at a time.

  Did I mention I’m addicted to YouTube?

  YOUTUBE GOT ME FIRED

  ABOUT THE ARTIST

  Chloe Guillory is a senior at Magnolia High School in Texas. She began drawing in the eighth grade and she comes from an artistic family. She is seventeen years old and draws as a hobby when she’s not onstage performing in her high school’s theater productions. You can find her on Twitter at @werido17.

  I’ve always been a hardworking guy. It’s actually one of my downfalls. Well, that and dipping sauces. I can really fuck up the condiments bar at a Fuddruckers. Waitresses always think I’m joking when I ask for a serving tray of different dipping-sauce options with my meal. They laugh and tell me how hilarious I am. I don’t laugh and tell them to GET ME A TRAY OF SAUCES.

  When I was seven my first job was getting the newspaper every morning from the front porch and taking it upstairs to my grandma. I know it sounds simple, but I was obese and my front porch had like six steps, so it was a daily struggle. Also the fact that I had to walk up another thirty steps to get to my grandma’s bedroom made it damn near impossible. I saw a commercial for one of those electronic “stair chairs” for handicapped people that literally lifts you from the first floor all the way up to the second story of the house. It was on my wish list to Santa every year. I never got it. But I did get a Princess Diana Beanie Baby in a glass box, so all is forgiven.

  When I was twelve I moved on to bigger and better things. I sent in my letter of resignation to my grandma and told her that I needed to explore other options. There was more out there for me. More than just getting the paper every morning in exchange for a few fat-free SnackWell’s cookies. I was going to be the richest kid on our block, which wasn’t saying a lot considering the richest kid on our block still couldn’t afford braces at fifteen. Poor kid looked like he’d taken a bite out of the street. I was going to be a success, and I was going to do it the American Way: make a bunch of shitty products and force my neighbors to buy them because they felt bad for me. I had a plethora of ideas. Some were better than others, but they all had one thing in common: they were terrible. One was a frozen ice-cream pop that was made from fat-free yogurt and peanut butter. It literally ripped off my taste buds and made my tongue bleed for two hours. But instead of adjusting the recipe to make it not tongue-bleedingly dangerous, I just decided to sell it the way it was. I sold about ten of them the first day, which was great, but shockingly I didn’t get any reorders. So it was time to move on to my next product: friendship bracelets.

  What do you need to show that you and your friend care about each other? Not open communication, not acceptance of each other’s flaws. No no no. You need shitty-ass bracelets that are impossible to take off so you end up getting dirt, shit, and garbage all over them. Ya, that’s what friendship is. I sold about fifteen of them and I felt like I’d struck gold. You should have heard my pitch. It usually went something like this:

  [Ding dong]

  Old Lady: Ooooh! Is it Girl Scout cookie season already?!

  Me: No. I’m not a girl, and I don’t have cookies.

  Old Lady: Oh. Well that’s unfortunate.

  Me: But I do have something better!

  Old Lady: Save it. I’m an atheist.

  Me: I don’t know what that word means. I’m twelve.

  Old Lady: Well, by the looks of you and what “God” gave you to work with . . . you’ll know the word pretty well in your teens.

  Me: Looking forward to it. What I’m actually here about is a product I’m very excited to share with you! Tell me, do you have any friends?

  Old Lady: They’re all dead.

  Me: Great! Well, wouldn’t it be nice to have something to remember them by?

  Old Lady: My last friend stole my husband, so . . . that’s kind of hard to forget.

  Me: Wow. That got dark really fast. Well, I have something more uplifting than a rage-filled vengeful heart! How about . . .

  [Whips out shitty bracelets from a Home Improvement lunch box]

  Me: Friendship bracelets!

  Old Lady: Cute. I’m closing the door now. I have to change my colostomy bag. This experience has completely filled it.
/>   Me: Please, hear me out, Mrs. . . . I don’t know your name so I’ll just call you Mrs. Beautiful.

  She blushed. Not sure if it was from flattery or embarrassment from the smell of her colostomy bag leaking, but either way, she was engaged.

  Me: Now, who’s somebody in your life that you can rely on?

  Old Lady: My cat, Cheddar.

  Me: Great! But let’s try a human.

  Silence.

  Me: Mrs. Beautiful . . . Do you want to be my friend?

  Old Lady: Not really.

  Me: Ok. Then let’s just be bracelet buddies.

  I tied a bracelet on her wrist.

  Me: Whenever you look down at this bracelet just remember that there’s someone in the world wearing the same bracelet on the same wrist looking down at it too.

  I tied a matching bracelet on my wrist.

  Me: So whenever you look down, you won’t feel alone. Kinda cool, right?

  Old Lady: Yes. Yes it is.

  She smiled. Adjusted her bracelet. Got it to the right fit. Looked back up at me.

  Old Lady: You give that speech to all the lonely ladies on the block?

  Me: I’m only wearing one bracelet, ma’am.

  We shared a smile. She handed me five bucks. And I was on my way.

  Now, I’m not gonna lie. I was playing with her emotions. I knew that she was lonely and that feeling like there was someone who cared might make her more inclined to buy something from me, but is that so bad? She was a sad old lady who smelled like feces and had a cat named after a type of government cheese. Who WOULDN’T feel bad for her? But that’s what made me a great salesman. I CARED. Which led me to my next job, which was six years and a lot of hair product later: weight-loss products salesman.

  I walked into the front door of a very prominent national weight-loss center in Huntington Beach, California, two days after my eighteenth birthday. I was ready for a “grown-up” job. Selling bracelets to old ladies isn’t as cute when you are a teenager with constant accidental boners. I needed something with benefits and responsibilities. Something that I could be proud of. And to me, helping people shed pounds was perfect. Besides, I knew these people. These were my people. I could share all my experiences with them and show them there was a light at the end of the tunnel. If only the company had felt the same way. From what I could tell even on that first day on the job, its mission was to make as much money off fat people as possible.

  For those of you who don’t know how weight-loss management companies work, I’ll break it down for you. Imagine a grocery store where the lady at the checkout counter asks you to reveal all your darkest demons and then gives you a smiley-face sticker and asks for your credit card. It’s pretty much like that. Except in this case that lady at the checkout was an eighteen-year-old boy who had NO idea how to help people with their physiological problems and had no nutritional knowledge whatsoever. Before walking through the front door of the center I had to go through five days of “Nutrition 101,” which sounds way more informative than it was. It was basically me and six other hopeful employees sitting in a creepy back room at some abandoned weight-loss center being lectured by a suicidal divorcée about the food pyramid. One of our topics of the day was “Things my ex-husband eats that make him a fat piece of shit.” That one was pretty informative, actually.

  After five days of that we got a certificate (which I’m pretty sure you could just find on Google Images and print out) and were given the go-ahead to “join the family.” Sitting with a group of older women being told that we were now joining the “family” made the whole thing very Sister Wives. I was the gay-looking husband and they were my unattractive, annoying significant others who I secretly hoped would die in a house fire while I was at work.

  The first thing I did before starting my new job was go to Target and get the fanciest first-day outfit I could find for $20 or less. I purchased ill-fitting black pants that showcased my white gym socks underneath, a faux silk button-up shirt that was NOT sweat resistant, and a two-sizes-too-tight Jonas Brothers vest that had “vanity buttons” on the shoulders. Looking back, I looked like a Claymation Tim Burton character. But at the time, I thought I was the shit. I even remember thinking, “If I ever win a Teen Choice Award I’m TOTALLY gonna rock this on the purple carpet!” Which happened, and I did. But that’s another embarrassing story for another time. Back to fat pimping.

  I walked into the weight-loss center, and to my surprise there was nobody there. It was creepy. Like an abandoned city in a zombie movie. All that was left were empty chairs with coats hanging off the backs and the lingering smell of cheese curls. After about ten minutes of looking around, I opened the back door and there they were, all the employees, smoking cigarettes, eating gyros from a truck, and having a burping contest. And the best part is they were doing all this while standing under a HUGE sign that said: LIVE HEALTHY. The irony was bigger than my “before” picture. It was practically busting out of its seams.

  It was then I realized this whole company was a facade and it was just another way for America to make money off fat people. But I didn’t hate the job. I ended up working there for over three years, and I became one of their most successful salespeople in the entire country. I would have bigwigs come up to me at conventions and ask, “How do you do it? How do you sell so much?!” And my response was simple: I care. I actually wanted to sell the clients the food and see them every week because I wanted them to succeed and lose the weight. But I also had a winning sales pitch to help me out when a new customer wasn’t biting.

  [Ding. The scale hits a high number. The new customer is in denial.]

  Customer: That’s not right. Maybe it’s my shoes.

  Me: It’s not your shoes. Its time you take control of your life . . . today.

  Customer: I don’t know how I let myself get this big.

  Me: You ate. A LOT. The amount you ate in a single sitting is enough to feed a house full of relatives in an African village.

  Customer: How dare you!

  Me: Yes. I did. I dared myself to take control of my life, and I did. I lost one hundred fifty pounds and so can you. Do you want to hear more about our program?

  Customer: I don’t know . . . is it expensive?

  Me: It’s five hundred dollars for the year plus the cost of food.

  Customer: WHAT?! That’s insane! I can’t afford that!

  Me: Let me ask you something. If your car broke down today, what would you do?

  Customer: Fix it?

  Me: Yes. Of course you would. What if it was going to cost you five thousand dollars and if you didn’t fix it your car would blow up?

  Customer: I’d pay it.

  Me: Well, this is your life, which is way more valuable than a car. And you’re willing to spend five grand on a hunk of metal but not five hundred on your LIFE? Now, does that make sense to you?

  Customer: Wow. I never thought of it that way.

  Me: That’s why I’m here. Welcome to the family.

  CHA-CHING.

  I hate to say it, but I was the shit. And I wasn’t lying when I gave my sales pitch. I believed every word I was saying. I really thought this job was what I was born to do . . . until it all ended.

  I was early to work on that fateful day, strolling in at seven a.m. wearing the most unflattering outfit Macy’s had to offer. I had been promoted the week before, so I had to up my game. Target wasn’t gonna cut it anymore. I needed REAL silk; enough of that faux shit. My hair was bone straight and my pimply face clean shaven. I was ready to start the day. When I walked in I greeted everyone like they were my family, because after three years of working there, they were. I looked at my before-and-after picture, which was hanging on the wall in the lobby, and I gave it a good-luck fist bump. I walked back to my office and opened the door and saw a stranger sitting in my chair. She was fat, so I thought she was a new client.
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  Me: Oh, I’m sorry. The waiting area is in the lobby. I’ll be right out and I’ll bring you back to weigh you. I’m excited to start this journey with you.

  My hand reached out for a friendly shake. It was not received.

  Woman: I’m not a client, I’m from the corporate offices, Shane.

  Me: Really?

  I looked her up and down. Not really the vision of health someone who works at a weight-loss corporate office should be, but who was I to judge?

  Me: Ok. So . . . can I help you?

  Woman: I’d like you to pack up all your stuff and be off the premises in five minutes.

  Me: Um . . . what?

  Woman: Time is ticking.

  Stopwatch activated.

  Me: What are you talking about? Is this a prank? Is this some kind of fat Punk’d? Is some fat Ashton Kutcher gonna pop out of the freezer room and yell GOTCHA?

  Woman: I’m not Ashton Kutcher, Shane. Please pack your things.

  Me: What did I do? Is it because of what I did in the bathroom yesterday during my lunch break? I didn’t know there were cameras in there.

  Woman: What?

  Me: Huh? Nothing. Never mind.

  I masturbated at work. A lot.

  Me: So what did I do?

  She told me. And I was pissed. Apparently I was fired because I had made a vlog at work. Now, this was back before EVERYONE vlogged so I guess the weight-loss center was freaked out that one of their employees was making strange internet videos at work. When in reality my vlogging was only promoting their company more. But it was 2009, so I can’t hate them for not being “hip to the times.” But what I am mad about is the way they handled the situation. Not only did they fire me, they fired all the other employees who were in my vlogs, and that included my mother and brother, who had started working for the company after I did. As I walked out of my office carrying all my belongings, I stopped and stood before my before-and-after poster.