Dammit, Amy Poehler

Well, tomorrow's the big day. As long as this Philly snowstorm calms down long enough for a safe landing, I'll be back in the US within 24 hours. 

When I left for London, I thought it'd be a fun little experiment to not bring any of my happy pills. "Yeah, Kyle! You can do this -- go live life in London and just feel all the feels!"

It wasn't easy back in August, but prepping to leave has been even harder, and there's nothing I'd like more than an IV of Zoloft in one arm, and Ambien in the other.

There's a part of me that's like "get me back in a country where you can find buffalo chicken anything", but some goodbyes really haven't been easy. So I thought I'd turn to my good friend Amy Poehler for some advice. 

And then I just cried for like 20 minutes. Dammit Amy. How you gonna do me like that?

Whatever, I'm pretty sure she just promised me a new set of pearls for Christmas. That was super sweet of her.

My BOO-tylicious Halloween

The costumes, the candy, the crazy --  if you're doing it right, Halloween always leads to a few wild stories. There was a decent-sized group of us this year, but as is usual when I go out with straight friends, it wasn't long before everyone coupled off and I was left to do what I do best: take over the dance floor.

My hips are very truthful.

I was making my rounds, bouncing between couples as the fabulous third wheel to all of their Halloween escapades, but I made my usual detours along the way. My game plan goes like this:

1. Dance by myself in the middle of the floor.
2. After no more than 10 seconds, make eye contact with a group of girls.
3. Become best friends and take pictures on all of their cameras so they have something to look back on when I become famous.

It's a public service, really.

At one point, I saw my friend Alex from across the room, and our obvious solution to the problem was to hop on the table and dance to each other. She got down, but I felt it was my duty to keep serving the crowd with my presence. That is, until a group of Asians pulled me down and feverishly asked to take their picture with me.

Turns out, when Alex got down, she walked over to those Asians, and their conversation went something like this:

Alex: Do you guys know who that is?? (Pointing up to me.) 

Asians: No?

Alex: Really?! He's this huge reality star in America! That's why he's been taking pictures with people all night!

Asians: ... Really?! Are you sure??

Alex: Yeah! He's on the E! Network back in the US, so you might not get his show here, but he's a really big deal!!

In all fairness, I think my Despicable Me costume
may have been trash TV-worthy that night.

 You know what they say. Fake it till you make it.

Adorable Accents

When I was preparing to move to London, one of the things I was most excited about was getting to hear all of the British accents. Accents are obviously really adorable, and I'm a firm believer that a great accent has the power to make any person at least five times more attractive. Maybe even ten.

I always knew Katy Perry and I were the same person.
Ever since "I Kissed a Girl".

I'd like to take this opportunity to say that I don't believe I have an accent. I took this quiz online, and it told me so. It also said I have a great voice for TV and radio. (There's a wink and a nudge to you, TV executives!)

However, I feared that some of the British people I encountered were not going to agree with me on my plainly nonexistent accent. I thought it would point me out as American right away, and bring with it some negative connotations. I was only sort of correct here.

Yes, British people (and every other nationality I've encountered) immediately recognize that I'm American. And while I've had several people tell me that I'm disgracing the English language by ruining it with my voice, some (less) of the feedback has been more positive! I've even had a few people ask me to repeat their names because they like hearing it in an American accent!

I've considered the possibility that they're doing this to make fun of me.
But I'm choosing to disregard the thought.

But there's one conundrum with all of this accent loveliness. I've noticed that when I'm talking to a local, I'll start to speak like them. Imagine me, talking to a London native, trying to communicate in my poor excuse for a British accent. I feel like such an asshole because I'm sure they can hear it. And I'll try really hard to focus on not doing it, but I can't help it. It just happens. It's awful. And I want to apologize to the London community as a whole.

I've gotten a little better at not speaking with the full accent, but some of the inflections in my voice have definitely changed. Part of me kind of hopes that that part stays when I go back to the States. English people sound classy, and I have a reputation to uphold.

Or at least one I need to pretend to uphold.

Ten Years Later

It's hard to believe, but I've been in London for seven weeks now! In and around all of the great trips, work experiences, classes, and explorations, I've been doing a lot of soul-searching while I'm here. It's not often that a person is given the chance to get away from all of his comfort zones and safety nets, left with only his mind and memory to remind him of who he is. It's left me to have the time to consider what really matters, what I want out of life, and who I want to ensure is going to come along for the ride.

Ok, I'll get to the point.

A friend and I were talking about how awesome this trip has been, and that if you would have told our younger selves the things we've been able to see and do, they'd never believe it. And it reminded me of an assignment I had in a writing class last semester, where I had to write a letter to my ten-year-old self. It was such a strange experience to think about the advice I would have given to the 5th grade Me. Yeah, it was a cheesy assignment, but I told younger Me that things wouldn't always be easy, but he had a lot to look forward to.

But if I had to write that letter now, just eight months later, it would not look the same at all. Trust me, I'm not saying that I've become some beacon of maturity. Not at all. If anything, I'm freaking out more because I only have a few months left of school before I'm out there in the real world. But being in England has forced me to figure out how to live on my own. I've had to find my way around the city, make new friends, and do it all without my usual crutches. It's just been me. And in these past seven weeks, I think I've started to understand what Pride really means, and it's more than being able to walk around the streets in your underwear. As fun as that may be.

It's about being proud of who you are. As a gay individual. But also as a human individual.

And there's so much more to it than that. I'm finally building the life and career that I've always wanted. I'm interning at an international film marketing company, and working on a big branding project for Disney right now. If you know anything about me, you know that that's a HUGE deal.

Sorry, I'm just really excited.

Since middle school, I've spent countless hours and sleepless nights browsing through the online wonder that is Wikipedia, trying to learn as much as I could about the companies in the entertainment industry, how they operate, and what their brands are. Yeah, people thought it was weird, but it was my hobby and something I loved. But even though I knew that's what I wanted to do when I grew up, I never thought it would actually be possible.

Then I went to Oktoberfest two weekends ago. On the flight there, as I sat in my window seat, dressed in my tight-fitted T and a scarf, and reading my JLo cover issue of Cosmo, I realized that this is what my life is going to look like. I can be who I want to be, do the work that I want to do, and see as much of the world as possible in the process.

And I'll probably always take an endless amount of selfies, everywhere I go.
Even in the airport bathroom.

Every day, I'm doing things I never imagined I'd actually get to do. Ten years ago, 5th grade Me couldn't stop asking what right I had to want this life. But ten years later, I'm saying that this Small Town Celebrity is just getting started.

Holy Shit. I Live in London.

Ok, so now that I've been here a full week, it's actually starting to hit me that I'm living in London. As in, I'm not just visiting on holiday: I actually live here, and it's both exciting and horrifying at the same time.

Here are the 5 most anxiety-inducing things I've noticed about living across the pond.

1. I don't know how to cross the street.
First of all, London is not built like a grid. Apparently there's a long history in this city or something (Who knew?!), so the majority of London is made up of town squares and the streets that were later built to connect them. Not only does this make it difficult to acquire any sense of direction, but it also means that the streets are laid out in the most random way possible, and cars come at you from every which way you can imagine. And if that weren't confusing enough, they're driving on the wrong side of the road! It's basically a free-for-all, and I'm pretty sure one of the Americans is going to die while we're here.

2. Coffee isn't a thing here.
They have it, but they don't have it. Because they're too busy drinking tea to appreciate everything that coffee has to offer. There are lots of cafes around, but they're Starbucks-style expensive. I just want my gas station coffee that is equally cheap and delicious, and these Brits don't understand what I'm going through.

3. Hulu, Netflix, and Pandora all have international restrictions.
I realized on my first day here that I wouldn't be able to keep up with my shows. And I'll be damned if I don't get my daily dose of General Hospital and see how Glee handles the loss of Cory Monteith in realtime. Luckily, I'm a media major, and I've found a way around this silly little thing called international law.

4. People here actually look like me. 
At home, I dress and act differently than most people. Good, bad, or ugly, that's just the truth. Not many American guys have to get up an hour early to get ready and blow dry their hair. But here, that's just the norm. It's that whole European thing, I suppose, and all of the guys do it. But it's strange because I don't really know how to fit in. I'm used to people looking at me out of the corner of their eye as I walk by, and just strutting my stuff. But now that I'm in London, it's just like, "I'm here. I'm perfect. Why aren't you looking at me?" I don't want to be normal. Normalcy is for peasants.

And it's really throwing off my gaydar.

5. I'm actually homesick.
I honestly didn't think that homesickness would hit me this hard, and definitely not this early. I won't lie, I've cried a few times, but I suppose that's part of the experience I'm gaining. Being away from home isn't easy, but it's part of being a grown-up. You know what they say: You can take the celebrity out of the small town, but you can't take the small town out of the celebrity.

Ok, no one says that.

Winning London

I'm finally back in London! I flew in yesterday for a semester abroad, and I have got to say that the first 24 hours have been very eventful.

Let's backpedal a little bit. After a week full of LOTS of drunken dancing and tearful goodbyes, I had to say the hardest one at the airport: my mom, dad, brother, mom again, cousin, and mom.

As soon as I left them in the airport though, our small group of students started moving. I haven't seen some of my friends since last semester, so between that and the excitement about leaving, we were all a little giddy. After some introductions to the people I didn't already know, we headed towards security. You know those elastic belts they use to rope people off and keep the lines moving? Well, we ended up breaking those. And I ran into a door. And we kept dropping meds. But they still let us in, and after a long flight, we landed safely!

Then we turned into a shit show. Now, I sat with my girls Tara and Michelle on the plane, and we were supposed to meet another friend Alex once we landed in London, and then take a car to our flats. Customs took longer than it should have, and when we got out, we couldn't find her or our driver anywhere. We ended up asking a British pilot if we could borrow his cell phone to call the car service.

They said they came, but no one was there, so they left. They're going to send another car.

But we still haven't found Alex, so we go back inside to find her, and just before we were about to give up, I see her from across the crowded lobby. I could tell she was upset, so we brought her back to our suitcases to recoup, and she told us they put her luggage on the wrong plane ...

Meanwhile, a group of paparazzi appears out of nowhere, surrounding a short redheaded woman as she walks through the terminal, and a sitting-on-the-airport-floor Alex says:

"Oh, that's Sharon Osbourne. She was back there with me while I was trying to figure out the whole luggage thing."

Sure enough, it was her. So we finally got Alex's luggage, call the car company, and they say that, again, the driver couldn't find anyone.

They're going to send another car.

We finally get to our flats, and while I basically live in a closet with a bathroom, I have to say it's not too shabby. And the area it BEAUTIFUL.

These little parks are everywhere.

I went to register with the Foundation House, took a tour of the neighborhood, and went grocery shopping ... and then it was time to party.

It was Tara's birthday, so a big group of us went to this adorable little Italian restaurant and got some delicious pizza and sangria. And then we hit the pub.

I have to say, I have a great feeling about this semester. The people on the trip seem really interesting and friendly, the area has so much to offer, and it's only been one day! This is definitely going to be the trip of a lifetime.

... And if you didn't know that the title of this was a Mary-Kate and Ashley reference, we can't be friends.

Do You Want to Read My Diary?

I'm taking a writing workshop class this semester, and it honestly is one of my favorite classes. The professor is the sweetest old man: he brings cookies to class every day, he gives you a real dollar if you answer a question, and the writing he has us do is actually a lot of fun. But one of the assignments was that we had to keep a journal, writing at least three times a week.

My first mental image of this wonderful man reading my journal. 

We're having a portfolio review with the professor this week, and guess how many I actually have done? That's right, people. Absolutely zero.

Then I realized I needed to write 36 journal entries for tomorrow.

I figured the best way to give myself a crash course on the past 3 months of my life would be to stalk my own social media. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, the whole bit. Sorting through everything that has happened this semester was quite an experience! Basically, I'm a hot mess. I can't really go into the details right now, but once the dust has settled on everything, you can prepare to be amused.

However, I still have to show my professor a journal for tomorrow. But if I told him the real things I get myself in to, he honestly might have a heart attack. I would never be able to look at this man again. At the very least, I would be risking expulsion. Probably on several counts.

Such is life.