I Would Not Survive
6:23 PM: hour eight. My hour of reckoning. I'm suddenly totally nervous, even though I have absolutely no desire to be sent off to some deserted place somewhere with no food, the sun beating down on my head and fifteen other idiots jabbering endlessly in my ear. The woman behind camera two is very nice, asking me to speak up to make sure I can be heard over the crowd, and instructing me to hold my number up by my face when I say my name. "Rolling," she says. I hold the number next to my face and flash the camera a wide, fake smile, and start with the unintentional lies. "I'm twenty-four," I say. I'm twenty-five. "I'm a copywriter." I just got laid off. "I don't even know why I'm here. My friend said she'd buy me dinner if I came with her. I mean, I could do with a million dollars, and I think I'd be good on the show because --" The girl over at camera three starts screaming "Morgan Hill! Morgan Hill!" and totally throws me off. I look over at her. "Some girl over there is acting totally retarded," I tell the camera. And then I lose it. I babble about being an evil manipulative genius, which is not only monstrously stupid but also blatantly untrue, especially considering that if I can't remember how old I am after seven hours in the sun, I truly have no chance of evilly manipulating shit. I think I mentioned that I have a lot of allergies, and that I enjoy watching football, and that I have a degree in English, and that I feel like I waited in line since the dawn of mankind. I'm not sure. I remember nothing. It's like a bad dream. "Okay, I feel like a total dork. Thanks for your time," was my brilliant finish. I choked, y'all. I totally choked. But it's okay, because there's no way I could survive a month on an island, or the tundra, or the Amazon, or wherever, if I couldn't survive eight hours in a parking lot. Which I couldn't.