Tyson, 22
I have some Valium that I’m scared to take, so instead I call The Boys. They crash on my couch with bottles of wine, and we describe our weekly exploits the way Real World casts talk in confessional.
“Do you ever worry we’re fucking everything up?” I ask and Tyson shakes his head. On Friday a certain socialite told me I had 2 more years to fuck up and then I needed to stop. This sounded reasonable, but now it’s bugging me. “How do you know our lives aren’t total messes?” I press.
“Because I have these two stepbrothers,” he says, “And they’re 5 and 8. And the 5 year old is always falling down. He’s 5, that’s what you do. But when his mom is around, and he falls down, she freaks out and says “oh no, are you okay?” and runs right to him. Then he’ll realize he should be hurt, and he’ll cry for hours. But when I’m around and he falls down, I’ll just say, “Hey, that was funny, huh? Let’s get back up.” And he’ll laugh and start running around again. We’re not 5 anymore, but we’re basically the same.”
Then I make fun of Tyson for 1) dressing like Laguna Beach Jason 2) being named Tyson, and he scoffs, “actually, my real name is Jay,” and then we drink more wine.
[NACHO LIBRE - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]