I am sitting in the corner of the Salt Lake City airport sucking some power from an outlet. It’ll be a half-hour before we begin boarding.

With every journal entry, I have to decide what I am going to write about and what I am not going to write about. Some feelings stir in me during journal time are fleeting and stupid and are not worth immortalizing in a journal: frustration from a crashed computer, disappointment about not getting a phone call, or the new found confidence that my shirt fit more snug after working out.

At the same time I have to be honest with myself about the reality of my life. Since I’ve gotten off The Real World, I’ve sought to define myself outside the context of the show. I am not only that guy from the RW, but more. There is more. In an attempt to put the RW behind me and not having people think I am gloating, I’ve avoided writing about some of the day to day experiences of a young man in his fifteen minutes of fame. With that…

I have a unique affection for my weathered orange Life Teen hat. When I pack my bags, it is as valuable as headphones, toothbrush, or a snoozy pillow and blinders for sleeping. With my hat pulled low, I am able to walk through an airport and get stuff done. I keep my head down every time I pass a group of high schoolers or college kids. I can board my plane and be off to the next city.

There is nothing worse than someone recognizing me when I am not able to stop and say hello. It’s not cool to dis a fan of the show. It’s not cool to dis anyone, but especially someone who has watched every show and bought every book and video. I’ve almost missed flights because I’ve stopped to talk to people.

Nothing infuriates me quite as much as seeing somebody auctioning off my signature online. I don’t even check the RW auctions unless someone has acquired something unique along the way. (How the hell did that guy get my student ID? I want it back, I can get discounts with that thing.) It sucks to know that I took the time to greet, share, and make a personal message and an autograph, just so they can scan it and sell it. I mean, if that is how it ends up, I’ll just sit around with my TRW roomies and write our own money. If it were all about ephemeral personal gain, I would be trying to get laid instead of signing an autograph.

Sometimes, I just feel like I am a snack machine that went crazy and is giving out free stuff. People come by and push all the buttons and loot what they can. Kids get greedy. A few autographs, a cute conversation, and a hug isn’t enough. They want my sunglasses, a picture with a kiss, my email address, my screen name, my phone number… I don’t know what to do: I want to be nice and considerate, but only if they are willing to do the same.

When I go out with my friends, I always ask for certain seat and blame it on being left-handed. The real reason is so I can put my back to the crowd and have a meal with out someone coming over to talk to me, and possibly stirring up jealousy or contempt from the people I am with. I don’t like that: that I have to quiet something that is a part of my life just so people won’t get jealous. I just want to say “screw you, this is me, take it or leave it.”

(A really cute girl just sat down next to me. Maybe if she looks at my monitor I will type a message to her letting her know I think she is pretty.)

Mom is the only one I can tell everything. To her, I am still her little boy telling her about my day at school. I can tell her about getting mobbed on Fifth Ave, about waving to someone from the TRL window, and about feeling uncomfortable when people blatantly tell me they didn’t like me on the show.

It feels so good to release some of that. Next thing you know I’ll be talking about how people call me Vanilla Ice.