We ended up selling three tickets (to me, my sister, and her friend down the road) and collecting $20 in donations—a total of $50! Taking out the costs of the pizza, soda, plates, cups, napkins, roll of ticket stubs, streamers, and balloons—and then splitting the cash between the two of us, we barely had a profit . . . but to us, we were fucking rich. These shenanigans continued through the years.
Eventually, I made my way to high school, and the stakes got bigger. I could no longer support my tastes with casual neighborhood events. I had things to pay for, and I needed to get a real job. At exactly fourteen years and eight months, I had reached the minimum age for employment in Michigan, and I was ready to work.
My first job was as an Arby’s “drive-thru specialist” (my name tag literally said this). It was not glamorous. But at fourteen, my idea of success was minimum wage and an employee discount on roast beef, so I was in heaven. It was a simpler time.
After Arby’s, I made a lateral move in the fast-food industry to McDonald’s. There, I was able to work not only drive-thru, but also the front register, the fry station, the grill, and the sandwich line. I mastered the Golden Arches. This feat did not go unnoticed, and I quickly became a trainer. After a time, that particular McDonald’s became the hot-spot location for my peers to work. Everyone was getting a job there. Among the lineup were my three best friends—Rachel, Dolan, and Eric—all four of us in sand-brown uniforms and black, nonslip shoes. We were basically a gang to be respected and feared, and every day I left work reeking of grease. Even in high school I was a catch.
My favorite moment while working at McDonald’s (besides when I made out with a bi-curious coworker in the walk-in freezer) happened the summer after I graduated from high school. Mason Brinston was spacey, eccentric, and relatively squirrelly to begin with, so an eight-hour shift in the summer heat didn’t necessarily bring out his best. Our store had two drive-thru lanes, and it took four people to run them: two at the first window (one to take orders, one to take money) and two at the second window (one to fill orders, and one to hand them out). One brick goes missing, and the arches crumble. In the middle of the lunchtime rush, Mason was taking orders for both lanes, and I was taking money right next to him.
Some said he may have been on drugs. Others thought he may have had a mental breakdown. But on that day, for reasons still undetermined, Mason cracked.
Traffic was bumper-to-bumper, and we were trying to move the drive-thru line as best as we could. As seasoned pros, both Mason and I knew what we were doing, but when food orders start to get mixed up or cars get out of order, things get messy and tense. Screams from the kitchen, yelling from our manager, and angry customers just might have been the perfect storm. All of a sudden, Mason calmly turned to me, his lips curled into a smile, and took off his headset. Next, Mason climbed out of the drive-thru window. It was only noon, and I was already having my best shift ever.
He quit then and there, not in a fit of frustration or anger, but laughing like a maniac. He removed his regulation clip-on tie while walking between honking cars in the drive-thru line. In the parking lot, he threw his arms up in surrender as if to say, “You win this round, Ronald!” All of us were mystified, but Mason and his empty summer schedule had the last laugh.
My next high school job was working for a coffee shop called Beaners. I hesitate even to write that word now, but that was the name. In my defense, I had no idea the word was a racial slur. In Michigan, we had incredibly few Latinos, and only when the franchise expanded farther south did the management realize that their name was deeply offensive to the fastest-growing population group in the United States. I just thought it was a play on coffee beans.
I was the company’s first male barista. After so much time making fast food, I was done with roast beef and moved on to . . . roast beans. In my short time as a barista, I gained about ten pounds from blended hazelnut coffee drinks with way too much whipped cream, and I became obsessed with the drama between my two bosses: a married couple comprised of a husband who was having an affair with a barista, and an angry wife who had no idea. They hated each other, and I lived for it.
It should be noted that I was once the subject of a bidding war between Beaners and McDonald’s, and that my ex-manager from McDonald’s requested a secret meeting with me in which she offered me whatever Beaners was paying, and then some. You heard right: I was that valuable to the mid-Michigan fastfood industry.
Although teens usually complain about having to work, it was the best time of my life. Working through high school gave me the discipline I needed to apply for college—despite knowing it would cost me an arm and a leg—and to then attempt to pay 100 percent of my own way through by working multiple jobs, all while taking classes. Without that foundation, I’d never have had the work ethic to be my own boss today, as a full-time YouTuber. That, and I love free fast food.
After high school, I went off to study at Michigan State University, where I would soon find myself cankle deep in student debt. I worked several jobs throughout my time in school, many at the same time, just to have enough money to pay for my loans, buy books for class, and afford a weekly half gallon of Popov.
If I had to pick one job during my time at university that was my shining moment, it would indisputably be telemarketing. Nightly, I’d go into a fluorescent-lit call center, surrounded by two hundred other starving college students. For a few hours, I would call alumni, begging for donations to the colleges at which they had studied. In hindsight, who knows why they needed us to beg alumni, most of whom were still paying off their debt? I didn’t care—as long as my own paycheck cleared.
It took me no time to realize that my God-given talent was convincing people to give me their money. In minutes, I could sweet-talk jaded alumni, whose microwave dinners I had interrupted with my call, into signing up to be monthly donors. I could woo them into joining our Spartan level of philanthropists, giving a $100 onetime donation, or even something as binding as an ongoing monthly pledge of $10. It didn’t matter how much debt they were in, if they didn’t get me off the phone in the first minute, I had them and their cash in my pocket.
My specialty was elderly women—whether they realized I was gay, I don’t know, but I could sing them the song their busy grandchildren never took time to sing. I’d call, ask them about their days, their weeks, their lives. I’d want to know about their stories, their husbands, their grandchildren, their dreams and aspirations, what made them laugh, their favorite soap operas, how many times they’d voted for David Archuleta on American Idol last week, anything to keep them talking. As long as I had them on the phone for a while, they’d open up their purses and find their checkbooks.
Now, before you think I was taking advantage of these poor old ladies, realize this: they were the ones using me. I had calls to make and goals to reach, and they, with their slow drawls and faltering memories, were taking up my time! I couldn’t help it that I had a mandate that came along with each geriatric gossip session. As soon as I realized I could see who I was next randomly assigned to call, I started cheating the system. If my next call wasn’t to someone born before 1950, I would immediately push “no answer” and move on to the next call in the system. I was “only here for grandmas.”
Although I’m not typically competitive, my position as the granny whisperer in the telemarketing room boosted me to top caller, number one out of about two hundred people, for two weeks in a row. To this day, I have an internal debate over whether that should be my Twitter bio.
During my sophomore year of university, my YouTube presence began to slowly grow, and with that, a man named Garth from the campus career-services center found my videos. His daughter, a classmate of mine from high school, was watching them in her kitchen. He looked over her shoulder, asked who I was, and found out that I was a student at the university that he worked at. He reached out, asked me to come in for a meeting, and immediately offered me a position running their digital presence and student outreach on social media. T
he job was basically to make videos about how to get a job, how to write a résumé, interview tips, and other career advice. I didn’t have any experience, but they gave me a free computer and paid me more than the telemarketing job, so I said yes.
The gig gave my online presence a bit of a local push, as my career videos were played to lecture halls and for incoming freshmen at orientation. Posters with my face were plastered all over campus, reaffirming all of my insecurities every time I turned a corner. For a brief stint, a mobile-billboard truck was even driving around campus with my face on it. Sorry, no autographs.
Once, times got really tough, and I started selling plasma for cash. Basically, they draw your blood, take the plasma out of it, then put what’s left back in you . . . all for like twenty bucks! Listen, I was poor in college. I remember one time, I went out to the bar one night, got drunk, and ended up going home with a guy. For the walk of shame the next morning, I had to run two miles in flip-flops to make it back to the car pool to go donate plasma. University was an interesting time.
As the years went on, I picked up a bunch of jobs. I was a busy boy. As a teacher’s assistant for public speaking, I had three classes of freshmen students presenting speeches that I would grade them on. During summers, I was a sports-camp counselor. I also spent three of my school years as an RA, a resident mentor in the dorms. Even with all these jobs, I still graduated asshole-deep in debt. The American higher education system is fucked. Nearing graduation with no job prospects, which wasn’t the best position to be in, I started to panic . . . but more on how I dug myself out of that hole later.
disney princes
DON’T ACT LIKE YOU DIDN’T HAVE A CRUSH ON an animated character when you were growing up. I did. I had plenty! Heck, in 1997, T.J. Detweiler from Recess was my celebrity crush. But when it came to cartoon men, I was all about the Disney princes. Please enjoy my definitive ranking.
12. TIE FOR LAST PLACE: PRINCE PHILLIP / PRINCE FLORIAN (Sleeping Beauty / Snow White)—On one hand, we’ve got Phillip from Sleeping Beauty, who slew a dragon for his lady, and on the other hand, Florian from Snow White, who clearly is comfortable with lots of short men living intimately together (my dream) . . . but I’m not into boys who give nonconsensual kisses. Sure, he had good intentions, but, like, don’t kiss me in my sleep. It’s a simple ground rule. You don’t know if those ladies wanted that. Maybe they were having a good dream. Maybe they were dreaming about Darren Criss. You don’t know what you just interrupted. Rude.
11. TRAMP (Lady and the Tramp)—This dog may not be a Disney prince, but any guy who wants to go splitsies on spaghetti and meatballs? Woof.
10. PRINCE CHARMING (Cinderella)—This guy is way too materialistic, with absolutely no personality. In the movie, he’s the definition of blah and has a shoe fetish. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a solid pair of TOMS, but glass slippers? Not my style. What if you have a blister, corns, or a hammertoe? You can see that right through those slippers. NAGL (not a good look). Also, Cinderella never even said she wanted a husband. All she asked for was a night out of the house to go dancing. She didn’t ask for your golden handcuffs, self-proclaimed Prince Charming.
9. JOHN SMITH (Pocahontas)—He has a mullet. I mean, at least he can kind of rock it, but I’m pretty sure his hairstyle was what Savages was written about—barely even human, rotten at the core.
8. BEAST (Beauty and the Beast)—Don’t get me wrong, I like a hairy chest . . . but everyone has their limits.
7. FLYNN RIDER (Tangled)—I like a man who is unapologetically himself. If you gotta go around with a fake name . . . then you need to get on my level. Call me when you’re ready, Eugene Fitzherbert.
6. PINOCCHIO (Pinocchio)—I like his no-strings-attached attitude, but I’m not looking for a real boy—I’m looking for a real man.
5. ERIC (The Little Mermaid)—You may be wondering why one of the hottest Disney princes of all time is ranked so low. . . . Well, let’s just say he’s done a bad thing . . . and not in a good way. Sure, he’s got the body and the eyes (yes, I’m talking this way about a cartoon), but he killed the best Disney villain of all time, the drag queen that is Ursula. Unforgivable. RIP.
4. LI SHANG (Mulan)—Though it’s never clearly stated in the film, Li Shang might be a bit bi-curious, given that he seemed into Mulan when he knew her as Ping. . . . He might be the only Disney prince I actually have a chance with—and his body ain’t half-bad. Plus a bit of discipline and ambition? He could make a man out of me.
3. NAVEEN (The Princess and the Frog)—Okay, sometimes Prince Naveen comes across a bit smarmy, but he’s also tall, dark and handsome—plus, royalty (!!!). And I’ve got to agree with Tiana, he’s lacking in work ethic, but I think with a little growing up . . . I’d hop on that.
2. KRISTOFF (Frozen)—I typically go for a guy my size, but there’s something lovable about a big, burly man. Honestly, I’m just looking for a big spoon on a cold winter’s night—and I think I’ve got what it takes to prove to Kristoff that people are, in fact, better than reindeer.
1. ALADDIN (Aladdin)—Yaas. Sure he’s got some problems with the law—but who doesn’t love a bad boy? Any guy who is willing to go to jail for some carbs? Ooo, I think he’s rather tasty, and he ain’t ever had a (boy)friend like me.
brace yourself
WHEN MY PARENTS FORCED ME TO GET braces in middle school, I was furious . . . until I met the man who was going to be tightening them every four to six weeks. My parents were cheap, so they drove me an hour away to the campus of the University of Michigan. Dental students used poor kids like me as their practice dummies, and when I met mine, I was ready to surrender all control. My student was tall, handsome, charming, and had muscles bulging under his scrubs. He had to be more than a decade older than me, but that didn’t stop me from thirsting. I’d lie back, mouth stretched open, our faces just inches apart. I’d be positioned upside down, as in that kiss in the Spider-Man movie, looking deep into his beautiful brown eyes, hoping he would feel the connection.
One day during a particularly intimate tightening, my orthodontist was busy tinkering on the brackets attached to each tooth while I daydreamed about our life together. In our future, he’d work all day making children cry for not wearing their retainers, but as soon as he walked through our front door, all his worries would dissipate. We’d adopt children together, and our entire family would have perfect teeth, under his careful supervision.
“Spit,” he’d say every few minutes, each time jolting me from my daydream. Our conversations were always like this—short, sweet, and usually telling me to spit. Whatever, I felt the connection.
On that day, as I looked up into his eyes, something made me lose all control. I thought, You know what? I should probably make a move before our final appointment. So, I did what any twelve-year-old flirting with a man twice his age might do—I licked his fingers.
In a flash, he withdrew them from my mouth, and his eyes fixed on mine. “. . . Do you . . . need to spit?”
“No.”
Maybe a second of awkward silence passed, maybe it was three, but it felt like an eternity. I had blown my chances, and I was mortified. We never did fall in love, and I felt weird each time I returned for future tightenings. When I got my braces off, my hot orthodontist student and I parted ways for good. Eventually, I lost my retainer and my teeth shifted back to their original crooked state. Maybe I misplaced it by accident, or maybe subconsciously I just wanted to get back into his reclined dental chair.
the t-mobile incident
MY MOM HAS NEVER BOUGHT INTO THE Hollywood glamour aspect of my YouTube life. Sure, she brags about my accomplishments to all of her Facebook friends, but no matter how many celebrity interviews I conduct, red-carpet events I work, or big, important meetings I have, I’m still her Michigan boy just doing his job. Although she has always been my biggest fan, she and the rest of my family don’t let a single aspect of my career go to my head, and they haven’t done so since my first humble beginnings.
/> I refer to a time before I ever had a smartphone, a laptop, or even a video camera. I was baffled by the most basic editing software, and because this was before Tumblr existed, I didn’t have so much as an outlet to complain about it.
My most advanced piece of technology back then was my flip phone. Flip phones were standard for all of my peers when we were in high school, and I got my first just in time for them to become outdated, putting me years behind when I entered college. The most popular version was called a Razr, and on top of being late to the flip-phone game, I was also too poor to afford anything but the knockoff. My model was thick, clunky, and went by a sleek name that rolled right off the tongue: the W490.
This was before cell phone cases even existed, so the W490 came in a vast multitude of colors, including bubble-gum pink, kiwi green, and a subtle plum. Because these phones had a quirky level of reliability unlike any other phone on the market, they came in bulk packs. As soon as one inevitably glitched or stopped working altogether, you could just switch your battery and SIM card into another phone. I was truly living the life of high-tech luxury.
It should also be noted that before phones had every letter displayed on their touch screens, you had to press the number-pad buttons. To text, you had to use a system called T9 texting—with the letters being evenly divided among all the numbers. I would explain the process in more depth, but those were dark times, and I’d rather not go down that rabbit hole, even mentally.