December 7: 267

There's a point in almost every (ambitious-enough-to-graduate) college student's tenure when he or she has the luxury of taking a class for nothing more than to take the class. For me, I was done with my physical education requirement by my sophomore year, but I still enrolled in a bowling class for the fall and spring semesters as well as the intersession of my senior year.

One of the great things about the particular coach of the class, was that she allowed us to make up days that we missed by attending a local bowling alley at our convenience, printing our scores, and returning them to her at the next class meeting. A group of my friends and I always went to a twenty-four hour bowling alley at some point in the week anyway, so even if I had missed a class, I would have had no problem making up the games.

I believe it was during intersession that I was enrolled with one of my best friends and for whatever reason, he had to miss a class, but couldn't join us on our weekly visit to Linbrook Lanes, so I told him I would just type his name in my spot and bowl his games for him. I never would have imagined the night I would have using his name.

The first ball I threw was a strike and everyone joked about me throwing a perfect game under a different alias as my own. The jokes only intensified when I threw my next ball for a strike as well. By the time I had thrown my seventh strike in a row, neighboring lanes were starting to gather and watch every time my turn rolled around. Of course, this is when I lost my bid for perfection by throwing the ball right into the gutter. Fortunately, I still picked up the spare in the eighth, bowled another two strikes, and then picked up the spare at the tail-end of the tenth to end with a score of 267; shattering my previous high score.

I printed the score out, but I changed the name to my own because I wasn't about to let my friend get all the glory for the night of my life. We gave him someone else's score so he still got the credit he didn't even really deserve, but I will never forget how on I felt that night. I always think back to that one gutter and think of the possibilities of what my score could have been too. The closest I've gotten to that score has been maybe a 250, but I rarely even break 200! For some reason, everything was clicking that night.

December 6: Bladder Dictatorship

It has a mind of its own and I am at its complete mercy. Just when I think I'm in control, it proves me wrong. It reminds me who's boss at the most inopportune times and it doesn't let go until I give in. Whether I'm browsing the Staff Selections at Barnes and Noble or alphabetizing CDs, my urinary bladder makes its presence known.

For whatever reason, my bladder has always known exactly when I decide to participate in select activities. I don't know if it's the different forms of media or the slow pace in which I move around them, but walking slowly through aisles of tall bookcases at libraries and bookstores always makes me have to go. As soon as I walk across the threshold of the entrance and take in the silence, my bladder will inevitably start to convulse and will perform somersaults upon my pelvic floor.

Whenever I would come home with a new CD when I was younger, I would spend a good ten minutes placing it in its proper slot. To do this, I had to find the slot, remove its current occupant, place the new CD in its place, and repeat the process for every following CD until I reached the end of the collection. I could have used the restroom at the music store before I left. I could have used the restroom in my home before alphabetizing my new purchase. No matter how many times I went throughout the day, by the time I finished the categorization, I was dancing back and forth trying to hold it all in.

A smart person would give in and find the nearest restroom to alleviate the discomfort. I am not that person. Pride might be the wrong word, but I'm much too proud to give in to an organ. I don't care how uncomfortable it becomes; I hate interrupting my activities for something as insignificant as urination. My mom is always quick to remind me how unhealthy it is to hold it in, but I want my bladder to know that I am its master. It doesn't tell me what to do! My digestive system has my back on this one.

My closest friends and family members (and now you, Loyal Reader) know that I have an unusual phobia of sharing a toilet seat with anyone other than my immediate family members. This fear made its first appearance at Sixth Grade Camp. There was no way on God's green earth that I was going to sit on the same seat as a cabin full of twelve-year-old boys spending their first week away from home. I can't remember if I went on Monday morning before I left home, but I do know that Friday's return to my porcelain friend was not the most pleasant visit.

I'm sure my digestive system has spoken with my bladder, but it doesn't stop my bladder from trying to trick me. Every morning I wake up, I relieve myself before showering and making breakfast. When I return to the restroom to brush my teeth before heading off to work, my bladder knocks on my abdominal cavity's door. "I'm full!" it says. Every morning I fall victim to its pranks because every morning I unzip to release just two or three drops of urine.

It really does have a mind of its own and I am helpless against it. It sleeps quietly and just when I've forgotten about it, the internal organ will interrupt me and force me to relieve it. I don't have a problem with my prostate just yet, but when I do, I'm not looking forward to the taunts I'm sure to receive from my own urinary bladder.

December 5: Get the Door

I understand we weren't all raised the same way. My family ate every meal together. Other families follow the grab-and-go routine. I was taught to change my bedsheets every Saturday and I know some people don't prescribe to that rule. Different parents stress different ways of upbringing. Some use words, some belts, and some just run away.

Even though some parents don't stress the importance of saying "please" and "thank you," somehow people still pick up the idea. Rarely will you find a person in his twenties accepting an item or a favor from another human being without giving some sort of acknowledgment to the deed being offered. It's almost human nature to at least nod, make eye contact or smile when someone hands you something or compliments your sweater.

What baffles me, then, is how a person can walk past another living, breathing soul holding a door open without so much as a blink of the eye. If the person holding the door open wasn't there, the walker would have to use his arms, hands, and fingers to pull or push the door open for himself. The holder has literally stopped what he was doing and where he was going for the walker. He stands holding the door open and more times than not is doing nothing more than watching the following person walk in or out of a building or room; all eyes are on the walker.

I don't know about you, but when all eyes are on me, I tend to be on guard a bit. I try to appease the crowd's expectations by acting accordingly. Unless your mind is so lost in thought, I can't comprehend approaching an open door without thinking about the door. Every time I walk toward an automatic sliding glass door, I think about the black, round sensor above me. Every time I walk through a propped door, I notice what is being used as a holder; I'm not exaggerating here, either! These are legitimate thoughts being processed by my brain.

When I hold a door open for someone that doesn't thank me, I'm always tempted to call to them and ask if they saw me. I'm tempted to follow them, grab them by their shoulders, drag them back through the door, walk in, and imagine what their faces must look like as the door closes between us. I'm tempted to forcefully slam the door on their heels before they have a chance to enter. There are quite a few things in life that irritate and annoy me, but few things make me hate a person and lose all respect for him faster than not saying "Thank you" for holding a door open.

A child can be raised by a single parent working three jobs to put food on the table. He could go his entire childhood without being tucked in at night by his mother. He could join a gang and rob convenience stores, but if his friend hands him a glock chances are, he's still going to say "Thank you." Somehow, somewhere, he picked up the proper thing to say when given something. We're all raised differently and yet we still have some sense of manners. Why are people still walking through doors without any acknowledgment to the people holding them?

December 4: Christmas Noise

It's official. The holiday season is upon us. Stores are fully decorated and neighborhoods are quickly following the trend. People are wishing others a happy holiday season while others are already throwing Christmas parties. Whatever you're involvement, you simply cannot avoid the music.

I'm only twenty-seven and I am completely sick of it. All of it. I hate to see Thanksgiving come because it seems to be the trigger for the onslaught of nonstop festive music. Every year I think to myself, "How on Earth can my parents still enjoy Christmas music when I'm already so sick of it?" This year, I came up with a theory.

First of all, Christmas was more about family and Jesus back then. It was about getting the in-laws to visit or traveling to see the uncles and aunts. It was about big dinners and nostalgic conversations. Christmas was December 25 and December 25 only.

Nowadays, it's not about family or Jesus anymore. Christmas is about spending money and being a good consumer. It's about saving money on electronics for yourself. Capitalism has turned one day of conservative gift giving in the name of Jesus and love into a month of constant spending. But it's not about the spending. The department stores and discount chains want you to believe it's still in the tradition of giving to loved ones. They want you to feel like you're spending because of Christmas. How do they pull the blanket over our eyes? With Christmas music.

A selfish public doesn't feel nearly as bad about buying hand-held video games and mp3 players for themselves at four o'clock on the morning of November 28 when Bing Crosby is crooning about a white Christmas. They're doing it because it's "Christmas time!"

But wait. If Bing Crosby gets all of this air time around the holidays because he has a Christmas song, why can't every band be heard on the radio in December. With an entire month devoted to the music, bands everywhere are releasing holiday albums to increase revenue. Let me say that a different way. Bands don't care that it's Christmas. They want people to buy their albums and they want the royalties from having those songs played on the radio.

Here's the problem with that logic: There are only so many "classic" Christmas songs. New ones aren't received as well, so all of these artists are covering the classics. Sure, there have been a few original songs, but on the whole, it's "Jingle Bell Rock" and "Santa is Coming to Town" over and over again. It's difficult to put your own unique twist on a song with lyrics about giving gifts.

So there you have it. Back in the day, people weren't bombarded with continuous Christmas music from Thanksgiving through New Year's. When I was growing up and I didn't have the luxury of driving myself around, the only time I heard Christmas music was the morning of when my dad would blast the Pointer Sisters' "Santa is Coming to Town." In those days, I enjoyed it just as much as everyone is supposed to. Now that it's everywhere I run my errands, I'm completely sick of it.

December 3: Disgrace

In 2003, Osten Taylor cast as one of eighteen castaways on the seventh season of Survivor. He was just twenty-seven years old when filming began in Panama and he lasted 19 of the 39 days of the game. An equity trade manager from Somerville, Massachusetts, Taylor was a force to be reckoned with. He began the show weighing 205 pounds and he was pure muscle. He was athletic, smart, and ambitious, but in the end he was a complete loser.

Survivor: Peal Islands was the reality show's seventh season and never in the history of the game, did it have a quitter. A contestant that went through the application process, paid for flights to interviews, put a job, family and friends on the back burner to be on America's favorite reality program only to quit before getting voted off. Hundreds of thousands of people apply to be on the show each season and no one ever even thought to call it quits until they were forced to resign by their peers. No one, that is, until Osten Taylor.

Since Taylor cried his way off the island, the show has had seven other quitters. Considering that it's in its twenty-first season and there is an average of eighteen castaways per location, eight out of three hundred and seventy-eight isn't that bad; unless you've applied to be on the show nine times like I have.

When I first saw Survivor, I was seventeen-years-old. At the time, you had to be twenty-one to apply. A friend I work with turns twenty-one tonight at midnight and she's excited to finally be able to legally purchase and consume alcohol; most minors think this way. For me, when I turned twenty-one, I was excited to finally be old enough to apply to be on the show. Since then, I have submitted my application and video through the mail and gone to four open casting calls. I've never missed an episode and it's been the subject of multiple 365 Days posts. I would give anything to be on the show.

I can't even begin to describe how irritated I become when a cast member quits. Not only do I feel cheated out of an episode of blindsides and backstabbing, but someone that was selected over me didn't even want to be there. Although I'm aware how slim the chances are for me being selected to participate, there is still a tiny bit of hope with each application I fill out. I keep my phone a little closer for the following weeks and check my email more often. Being on the show would really be the adventure of a lifetime for me, and because of this, I loathe the quitters. Every applicant is at home watching them quit and we're all thinking the same thing: Why did you even apply?

Osten Taylor was the first. He surprised everyone when he did it; not because he was the first to quit, but because he was so big and athletic. He quit because it was just "too hard" and he was losing too much weight. Various reports have been released stating he had infections and injuries that made it difficult for him, but the show had been around for six seasons! It's clearly spelled out all over the application that it's a tough gig. He had to have known what he was getting himself into.

Of the eight quitters, Jenna Morasca has the most legitimate reason. She left her mom who had cancer to be on the show and while filming, she had a gut feeling that her mom wasn't doing well. She quit the show and flew home just days before her mom died. That's freaky and bizarre. I don't consider Jenna a quitter like I do the other seven. I have absolutely zero respect for the one's that quit because they "couldn't take the elements anymore." If you want to win a million dollars while bundled up on your couch, you better start buying scratch-offs.

December 2: Left Behind

Let me start off by saying that I don't remember too many of the details. I know there were some disappearances, a new world leader, some weird tattoos, and a white horse descending from the sky.

While in college, I bought a truck and got a job at a restaurant to help me make payments. In 2004, I quit my job and moved my belongings from my Junior-year dorm two hours south and spent one last summer living at home. I knew there wasn't any point in pursuing a job while on Summer Break because the chances of finding an employer willing to hire an outsider for such a short amount of time was slim; so I stayed at home with the parents for three months and did nothing. Interesting. Sounds like a recent trip of mine...

I suppose I could have gotten rehired at my mom's office to do more filing and other miscellaneous chores because that's what I had done the previous two summers, but I hated that job more than life itself and I just wanted a relaxing, unproductive summer. It was while with the office position that I met someone that was reading a particular series of books that she swore by. Because I had all the time in the world the following summer, I decided to give the series a go. Big mistake.

The Left Behind series is sixteen (you read that right) novels that deal with the end of times according to Christianity. I've never been a very religious person and I certainly wasn't one when I picked up the first book. I don't even know if I was aware of the general theme when I made the decision to read them, either. Did my cubicle neighbor warn me? I can't remember.

All I know is that the series scared me and continues to have a major impact on the way I view current events and 2012 rumors. The writing is terrible. The character development is lacking. The mere fact that it is based off of the events of the bible, however, scares the crap out of me.

In the first book of the series, millions of people around the world instantaneously disappear leaving only piles of clothes behind. These people were "true believers of Christ" and everyone that was left behind must find Jesus before his triumphant return fifteen books later. In the meantime, the Antichrist rises as a great deceiver, there are storms of locusts, a Jew converts to Christianity, the moon bleeds, and the earth quakes. All hell literally breaks loose.

I'm convinced that if the rapture happened tomorrow, I would be left behind. It concerns me because I want to believe in the right things, but I just can't bring myself to have complete faith in something I've never seen or experienced. If the books are accurate, I'm screwed. I don't want to endure the New World Order or the Mark of the Beast, but if I don't start believing now, I'm definitely going to be left behind to be put through these tests.

In the summer of 2004, I read the Left Behind series; all sixteen books. I laughed at the ridiculous dialogue and yawned through the repetitive bombings, earthquakes, floods, floods, earthquakes, and bombings. I was relieved when I completed the series, but as the years have passed and I hear rumors of a One World Bank and read about new wars starting, I continue to think back on the many events of Left Behind. What if it's true. What if I don't disappear?

December 1: The Freestyle

I'm a Pepsi man. I always have been and I always will be. After all, Pepsi is the maker of my main squeeze, Mountain Dew. Without Pepsi, I could never enjoy the occasional Mountain Dew and without those moments, I would not be the Brandon you know and love. I don't, however, discriminate against Coca-Cola products.

I rarely drink dark colas to begin with because I'm afraid they'll stain my teeth, but if I'm in the mood for a Pepsi and the establishment I'm in at the time carries Coke, I will still drink it. The first question out of some people's mouths is sometimes about whether or not the place serves their preference. If it doesn't, many patrons will drink water and nothing else. If this sounds crazy, it is; but it happens all the time. I am not one of these people.

With that being said, I also happen to be a pizza buffet man. I first discovered the pizza buffet at a Pizza Hut while on a vacation to Palm Springs, CA with my family many years ago. Most families that take vacations to Palm Springs dine out at fancy restaurants, but we prefer the more humble establishments. Pay seven or eight dollars, get a soft drink and all the pizza, pasta, and salad you can eat. Plus, you can go in your board shorts and a t-shirt. It doesn't get any better than that!

The Pizza Hut buffet was the only pizza buffet I ever visited and it was only with my family on our annual trips to the desert, but when I moved to Pennsylvania in March of 2009, I was introduced to Cici's Pizza. It is by far the worst pizza in the world, but it's only six bucks and it officially got me hooked on the pizza buffet as a place to visit by myself. Since moving to Austin, I've asked around, sampled various buffets, and even considered settling down with Double Dave's Pizza. It wasn't until yesterday, that I officially claimed Double Dave's as my pizza buffet of choice; and it wasn't even because of the pies!

It's called a Coca-Cola Freestyle, and it is the coolest piece of technology since the introduction of the iPod in 2001. It is simply a soda dispenser that is virtually the same size as any standard soda fountain, but it is so much more. How many times have you purchased a soft drink only to find that your choices are extremely limited. Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, some sort of lemonade, Dr. Pepper, and maybe a root beer. Occasionally you'll find a machine that carries Vanilla Coke, but no Dr. Pepper or maybe a Powerade instead of the root beer. Up until the release of the Freestyle, the consumer had been limited to an average of six choices at each establishment. What if you had one hundred and six options from a machine that doesn't take up any more space than before?

That's exactly what the Coca-Cola Freestyle offers. One. Hundred. Six. Oh, yeah. And they all pour from one fountain and the selections are made via a touch screen menu. Double Dave's has one and it is amazing! The consumer places his/her cup beneath the dispenser, selects a main soft drink (Coke, Sprite, Hi-C, Dr. Pepper, Dasani, Powerade, etc.) and then selects a sub-category to that brand (Vanilla Coke, Cherry Coke, Coke with lime, Raspberry Coke, and Orange Coke). And that's just the Coke sub-category!

Instead of dispensing syrup from the back of the building to the machine, Coke has revolutionized the way eateries can store more brands and flavors in the same amount of space. They now use concentrated ingredients from cartridges and mix them with water and sweetener within the freestanding unit. The amazing thing is that the flavors never contaminate one another through the single dispenser.

I've always been a Pepsi man. I can't get enough Mountain Dew and I have Pepsi to thank for that. I prefer the taste of Pepsi to Coke too, but after experiencing the Coca-Cola Freestyle, I have gained a new appreciation and respect for what the Coca-Cola Company has achieved. If you've never seen one of these machines, I suggest doing some research and finding out where the units are located and visiting as soon as you're done reading this post. Which is now. Go!