It Gets Worse

by Shane Dawson

  Instead of freaking out, I decided to focus on what I was excited about . . . which was nothing, so I went to bed and covered my rash in an adult diaper.

  The next morning I woke up with a smile on my face, mainly because I’d had a dream about being decapitated by a machete. As I drove into the college parking lot, I looked at the other cars and they were just as shitty as mine. I felt like maybe I would fit in just fine. I got out of my beat-up ride and looked at the campus map to see where I was going first. I put my finger on the parking lot and then dragged it all the way to the orientation office. I started doing the math in my head, and the mathematical conclusion I came to was . . . DAMN, THAT SHIT’S FAR. I took a deep breath and began my journey.

  As I walked through campus I took in all the sights around me. I saw hot guys making out with hot girls. I saw ugly guys making out with ugly girls. I even saw an ugly guy making out with a semi-decent girl. There was hope for me! Sure, she had a back brace and what appeared to be face ringworm, but she had a pretty decent body. I took a little break on a bench after walking for what felt like hours and looked down at the map. I was only halfway there! I felt like I was walking around Disneyland, but it was more expensive and the only ride was a roller coaster of emotions you get when you find out the suicide rate! My chub rub had started to flare back up, and it wasn’t helping that I was wearing jeans. I should have known not to wear denim, but I was so concerned about looking cool that I ignored my instincts.

  I’ve had a long history with denim and chub rub. It all started when I was ten years old. My mom was dating a guy who was always trying to impress us. I remember one time when we were all together for a day out he pulled his car over to an ATM, hopped out, and said, “I love spending money!” In my opinion, he was a keeper. I have no idea how great his relationship was with my mom, but this motherfucker had a heavy-ass wallet and I wanted to help him go bankrupt. One day when we were all eating at a restaurant he looked over at me and asked a question I’ll never forget.

  MONEY GUY: Hey, Shane, tell me something crazy you want to do today?

  ME: Steal you away from my mom and have you buy me an island.

  Obviously I didn’t actually say that out loud, but I definitely thought it. Can you imagine me having my own island? Shirts would be mandatory, and the volcanos would be filled with cheese dip.

  ME: Um . . . ride a roller coaster?

  MONEY GUY: Let’s do it!

  He drove us down to Knott’s Berry Farm and we embarked on a day filled with roller coasters and no lines. He bought us the front-of-the-line VIP passes because he REALLY wanted to fuck my mom. And I wanted him to. I could only imagine what kind of amazing things he’d buy me if he was tapping that. We decided to go on a water ride, and that’s when the day took a turn for the worst. I was wearing my jeans and I had a little chub rub already, but the second my jeans got wet all hell broke loose. Wet denim makes a rash ten times worse. I’m sure there’s been some scientific study about it. Most likely funded by the Khaki Committee. I don’t care how fat I get, I’m not wearing khakis. That’s the epitome of giving up on life.

  As we left the water ride and headed over to get funnel cakes I couldn’t hold my pain back any longer. My thighs were burning so badly I broke down and started crying. I fell to the floor with tears streaming down my face and started grabbing at my rash-covered legs.

  MOM: Shane, what’s wrong?

  MONEY GUY: Is it something I said? Was it the comment about you kind of looking like a cartoon bear at certain angles?

  ME: What?

  MOM: I don’t think he heard that.

  ME: No, it’s . . . it’s . . .

  MOM: Honey, tell us.

  As I pointed down to my legs my mom knew exactly what it was and she knew how embarrassed I was by it. What kid wants his future sugar daddy to know that his fat legs had rubbed together so hard they literally started a flesh fire?

  MOM: I think we should go home now. It’s been a long day.

  MONEY GUY: But . . . I wanna spend more money.

  As much as I wanted to drain his bank account and make him buy me a pony, I was in too much pain to have any more fun. My mom took me home and helped me put on my rash cream. And I’ll never forget her advice that night as her hands were lathering up my inner thighs.

  MOM: No jeans when it’s hot out.

  Now, as I sat on the college bench feeling the familiar burn between my legs, I knew I should have listened to her advice. I was starting to feel defeated. It was only the first day and I was already in pain from walking around campus. I started having doubts about going to college. I could barely afford the application fee; how was I going to afford everything else that came along with it? Especially since I could tell I was going to need A LOT more chub rub cream than usual.

  Just as I began to spiral down a dark hole of self-pity, a security guard walked up to me and struck up a conversation. He was around fifty years old and looked like this was definitely his second job, his other job being a rapist.

  SECURITY GUARD: Hey. I haven’t seen you around here before. This your first day?

  ME: Ya. I’m a freshman.

  SECURITY GUARD: Freshman?! I thought you were a security guard!

  Told you. Narc.

  ME: Ya, I get that a lot. Especially at malls. It’s one of the reasons I’m too scared to ride a Segway. I don’t want to constantly be stopped and asked where the bathroom is.

  SECURITY GUARD: Ya, security is hard. What you studying?

  ME: Film. Well, not yet but hopefully soon. I have to take general education first.

  SECURITY GUARD: Cool. You gonna make really sad movies?

  ME: No, why?

  SECURITY GUARD: Just figured.

  ME: Ok . . . Well, I’m gonna go to class now.

  SECURITY GUARD: Let me walk you!

  ME: Oh, I’m ok.

  SECURITY GUARD: It’s more for your safety. You’re just asking for an ass whooping wearing that shirt.

  Did I mention I was wearing a shirt that said “SLICE to meet ya!” with a smiling cartoon piece of pizza on it? I wish I could kick my own ass. As we walked toward my class the chub rub started to get worse. I could literally feel pieces of my skin falling off. It was like two sticks rubbing together starting a campfire, and my “s’more” was starting to smell like fish.

  ME: Is there a bathroom around here?

  He looked at me for a moment, confused.

  ME: Men’s.

  Confusion over.

  SECURITY GUARD: Oh ya! Right over here.

  I walked into the bathroom and checked under every stall to make sure I was alone. All clear. I turned on the faucet and started to unbutton my pants. The rash had gotten so bad it felt like steam was coming from my jeans when I lowered them down. My thighs looked like they had a third-degree burn! For some reason I thought covering them in cold water would make them feel better, but I should have learned from my ten-year-old mistake: WATER AND DENIM MAKE IT WORSE.

  As I washed my rash with the cool water I felt a little relief, which was instantly ruined once I pulled my pants back up. It felt like I had just put on a pair of pants made out of knives and grandpa face. You know, that thick rough grandpa skin that you feel when he gives you a drunken kiss on Christmas? No? Just me? Anyways. I walked out of the bathroom clutching my thighs like I had just been kicked in the nuts.

  SECURITY GUARD: Did someone beat you up in there? Maybe turn that shirt inside out? I can’t be with you 24/7.

  ME: No. I’m having kind of a personal problem. Do you happen to know if there’s a pharmacy on campus?

  SECURITY GUARD: Of course, man. That’s where they got a bowl of free condoms! Which really comes in handy when you’re surrounded by this many fine-ass women.

  ME: Aren’t you fifty?

  SECURITY GUARD: You’re as young as you feel!

  ME: I don’t think that applies in this situation.

  I walked into the pharmacy and searched everywhere for rash cream, but I
couldn’t find it. I was desperate, so I went up to the girl at the register to ask.

  ME: Hi, I need rash cream.

  GIRL: This is college; you’re gonna have to be more specific.

  ME: I’m not sure what the medical term is.

  GIRL: There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I’ve heard it all.

  ME: Chub Rub.

  GIRL: Eww, what the fuck?

  I’m pretty sure she thought I had some kind of STD only transmitted by fat people. Great.

  GIRL: Follow me back to see the nurse.

  I was so glad to know college was filled with so many open-minded, nonjudgmental people. What a nice change from high school. As we walked into the nurse’s office I was instantly relieved by her warm, welcoming smile. She was like a school nurse out of a movie. She had suckers on her desk in case anyone got nervous as well as different-colored bandages to make wounds more fun.

  NURSE: How can I help you?

  ME: I’m having a situation and I need some rash cream.

  NURSE: Is it an allergic reaction?

  ME: No . . . it’s more of a wearing-jeans-and-having-fat-legs reaction.

  In that moment I could tell she understood me. She wasn’t a thin woman herself, and she definitely wasn’t wearing jeans.

  NURSE: Gotcha. I’ve got just the stuff.

  She reached into her medicine cabinet and grabbed a bottle of ointment that had clearly been used, most likely on her.

  NURSE: This should do the trick.

  ME: Thank you so much.

  NURSE: So, how’s your first day going?

  I hesitated. It wasn’t going well. I hadn’t even made it to my first class and I was already in the nurse’s office for a crotch burn.

  ME: Not great.

  NURSE: You wanna talk about it?

  ME: I just . . . I don’t know if college is my thing.

  NURSE: What makes you say that?

  ME: Well, first of all, the campus is huge. And I know this sounds crazy and incredibly lazy, but I’m not sure I can survive walking this much every day. I might actually die.

  She laughed. I didn’t. That much walking would have actually killed me. And “walking to death” wasn’t even on my top-ten list of ways to die.

  NURSE: What else is bothering you?

  ME: It’s just . . . I don’t know if college was a good idea. I only applied because nobody in my family ever had. I wanted to prove to myself that I could get in. And now that I’m here, I’m not feeling good about it.

  NURSE: What are you majoring in?

  ME: That’s the thing. I want to major in film, but it’s going to take three years of general education before I can even apply for that.

  NURSE: Oh, so you want to be a director?

  ME: More than anything.

  NURSE: Well, I’m sure you know how hard it is to get into that business.

  ME: Ya, trust me. I know it’s a long shot, but it’s all I ever wanted.

  NURSE: What about a plan B?

  ME: Never. The day I think of a plan B is the day I’ve given up. Well, that and the day I start wearing khakis.

  She laughed and sat down next to me.

  NURSE: I want to tell you something. Not as a nurse, but as a friend.

  ME: Ok.

  NURSE: If you really want to be a director, you’re not going to learn about it in a classroom.

  ME: What do you mean?

  NURSE: You have to experience it. Get on a movie set and learn how everything works in the real world.

  ME: Wait . . . Are you telling me to drop out?

  NURSE: I’m telling you to go with your gut. And if your gut is telling you to make movies, then that’s what you have to go do. Not sit behind a desk for three years hoping that maybe you will be accepted into the film program.

  I thought about what she was saying, and it really hit home. I didn’t want to be in college. I was so proud that I had been accepted, but the idea of being trapped in a classroom terrified me.

  ME: You give a lot of people this speech?

  NURSE: If I did, I would have been fired a long time ago.

  ME: Thanks.

  NURSE: Don’t mention it. Lollipop?

  ME: Ya, fuck it. Why not?

  She smiled and handed me a lollipop. I popped it in my mouth, took the bottle of cooling cream, and walked out the door. On the way back to my car, I called my mom to tell her about my decision. I was scared she would be disappointed in me and feel like she failed as a parent, but instead her reaction was exactly what I needed.

  ME: Mom, I’m dropping out. I want to get a job and support myself while I make short films and learn filmmaking on my own.

  I heard ugly crying on the other end. But they weren’t sad tears; they were happy ones.

  MOM: I’m so proud of you, Shane.

  ME: Really?

  MOM: I was praying about it because I knew your heart wasn’t in this. You don’t need college to tell you you’re a director. You’ve been one since the day you held up a camera for the first time when you were ten years old.

  ME: Thanks, Mom.

  MOM: One day you’re gonna make a movie like Titanic and inspire a kid to be a director just like you.

  That night I went home and lay on my bed with my pants off and turned on the second half of Titanic while I covered my thighs in rash cream. As I watched the ship crash into the iceberg I knew that I had made the right decision. My goal wasn’t to have a college degree or for a professor to tell me I had talent. It was for an audience to see my stuff and connect with it. I knew that if I just started working hard, I would get there, and I would learn along the way.

  From that day forward I started posting monthly videos on YouTube and learned everything I could have ever hoped to learn in college. I learned how to edit, produce, and write scripts, act, and even build an audience.

  I’ll always be grateful for chub rub. It caused me pain and embarrassment, but it truly changed my life and forced to me to take a huge risk. And without it, I wouldn’t be here today.

  Now this isn’t meant to make anyone feel like college is a waste of time, because for so many people it’s not. But don’t go because you feel like you have to. If your heart isn’t in it, then why spend four years of your life stuck somewhere you don’t want to be? If you’re passionate about something, give it your all, and you will find happiness. Whatever you do, just remember not to wear jeans if it’s hot out. And wear anything but khakis. That’s giving up before you even get started.

  Friends Without Benefits

  About the Artist

  KYLE ZARBOCK is eighteen years old and has been interested in art since he was very young. Currently, art is his entire life. He is taking many art classes at his high school, including a college credit Advanced Placement art class. He is going to major in art in college, and hopes that one day his art will be a part of something bigger, whatever that may be. Hopefully, one day he can do what he loves for a living.

  Social media with his art:

  Facebook art page: Kyle Zarbock Art

  Tumblr: the-pessimistic-optimist

  By the time I was twenty-two years old, the only person I had ever been in love with was Andy the waitress at the Cheesecake Factory, and that was because she knew to bring me ranch along with my bread basket for dipping. She never judged me for it. Because that’s what love is: no judgment. But besides her, I had never felt love for anyone besides family and friends. As a kid I had crushes, but I would never act on them. Mainly because I knew that there was no way in hell they would be interested in me. I mean, what kind of kid is interested in a guy whose grandma still wipes his butt at age twelve? I know that sounds disgusting, but trust me, she loved it. It gave her purpose.

  In high school I didn’t have many crushes, but the ones I did have were way out of my league. Well, any girl who didn’t have a cleft palate or a back brace was out of my league. By the time I was a senior, I was still a virgin, as revealed during a game of Truth or Dare one Friday night.
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  We were sitting in a circle in my bedroom as Avril Lavigne was playing in the background. Her music really was the soundtrack to my childhood. I always felt like I was extremely complicated and I was just trying to live my sk8er boi life. Except in reality my life was sadly straightforward, and I had never ridden a skateboard, because I was scared I would break it. Everyone was laughing at our slutty friend Tara, who had just been dared to put a TV remote in her vagina and change a channel. Not only did she change a channel but she set my DVR to record Teen Mom. She was a true American hero. Then it was my turn, and all eyes were on me.

  TARA: Ok, Shane, truth or dare?

  ME: Um . . . I dunno. If I choose dare, will I have to get naked?

  The whole room screamed, “EWWWWW,” and “DEAR GOD!”

  ME: A simple “no” would have been fine.

  TARA: Come on, Shane, pick dare! Don’t be a pussy!

  ME: I’m not a pussy!

  TARA: You have a five-CD changing stereo and all five CDs are Avril Lavigne.

  ME: So!

  TARA: She only has two albums.

  ME: The others are B-sides and live performances . . . Ya, I guess I’m a pussy.

  TARA: So? What do you say?

  ME: Fine . . . dare.

  The whole room clapped excitedly. I had never been a risk taker, so my friends were ready to see me do something crazy.

  TARA: I dare you to go in the closet and make out with Sara for two minutes.

  RANDOM FRIEND: Isn’t it supposed to be seven minutes?

  TARA: I love Sara too much to do that.

  ME: Thanks.

  TARA: So, what do you say, Shane?

  ME: Um . . . I’m not sure. Can I do a truth?

  TARA: Oh, come on! Stop being a pussy!

  ME: I’m not a pussy!

  TARA: Don’t make me go through your CD collection!

  She was right. I was a pussy. And not just because I had the deluxe edition of Lindsay Lohan’s “Confessions of a Broken Heart” with two bonus tracks and a poster. It’s because I had never kissed a girl, and I was terrified.