The Year That Was... 2017

Right off the bat, how obscenely overdue is this year retrospective? Greetings from planet Earth. Once again, my name is Veronica [insert last name here], and you’re not watching Disney Channel. Speaking of Disney, if my life in Orlando during my stint in the Disney College Program were a season of some show on Disney Channel? Boy oh boy, that would be some wildly inappropriate content for such a cheesy, kid-friendly medium. Indeed, my DCP experience formatted for television would be Disney Channel’s first non-scripted show featuring mature content and absolutely no laugh track. Because fuck live studio audiences. I call bullshit on audiences breaking out into unbounded laughter every second. Big Bang Theory is not that funny, nor is it on the Disney Channel and I am starting to digress. The year that was 2017 has been the most eventful year of my life thus far. In these twelve months of existence, more has happened to me than the previous five years at least. I cannot fathom the growth I’ve experienced this past year. From living next door to the most magical place on earth to returning home with minor PTSD symptoms, this year has been a goddamn roller coaster and, remarkably, I’ve made it from the ashes of this ill-fated ride and became even stronger. It’s like the plot for a superhero movie, as incredibly lofty as that sounds. I started the year as a severely shy movie nerd who was thrust into the Disney College Program. Along the way, I faced some obstacles and dilemmas worthy of super villain status: bureaucratic managers, the destruction of a magical facade, fuckboys posing as trusted confidantes, crumbling friendships, putrid and ungodly temperatures of 90+ degrees every goddamn day. Truly, this experience was a whirlwind of moments that ranged from giddy and magical to detrimental to my well being. Of course, everything is a balance and we are merely the weights upon that scale of good and bad. That was an attempt at a deep quote-worthy quote, but I fell short as always. Alrighty then kids, into the retrospective, which is being published exactly one year after my last day working for the Mouse. Funny how procrastination sometimes works to your benefit. If you haven’t guessed already, this is the Year 2017: Disney Edition.

Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho, It’s Off to Work We Go: I just realized those aren’t the actual lyrics to the classic song from Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. It’s “Heigh-Ho...It’s home from work we go.” That’s a tad embarrassing on my part as a former Disney employee, but the fake lyric fits nonetheless. I figured I’d talk about the work aspect of my time there first, seeing as that was my main purpose in Disney World. Not drinking and partying my way through the program. Anyway, I don’t want to go too in-depth because work in general can be boring, and talking about work is just unbearable for most. Also, I don’t want any Disney drones hacking into this blog and reading anything acrimonious I may write. My role in Disney was a seater, or hostess, at The Wave... Of American Flavors. (No suspense implied, I didn’t put the ellipsis in. It’s in the goddamn name of the restaurant.)  When I first started training, it felt like a dream and that’s no euphemism for “really good time”—it was an absolute dream to be training to work there in Disney World. Side note: I was ecstatic and relieved not to be working inside the parks because, quite frankly, it’s a literal zoo there. Fun as a guest, torture as an employee. I should note that at Disney, employees are referred to as cast members and I will use that term from here on. Working inside a Disney hotel was relatively peaceful considering the alternative, as I only had to deal with hotel guests and visiting tourists, for the most part. Thankfully, The Wave isn’t as popular as other hot spots like, say, the California Grill. At The Wave, I worked evenings about 90% of the time, which was a blessing because I could go out after work and have time to recuperate the next morning before my shift. I worked either 4-10 as a greeter (my favorite shift bar none) or 5-11 as a seater. Greeters stand at the podium all night checking guests in for their reservations, so my only responsibility was typing into the computer whilst smiling to guests. Hence my love for that low-stress position. Seaters announce the guests whose turn it is to be seated and then take said guests to their table. The reason I wasn’t a big fan of this position was the small talk. At a Disney restaurant, one does not simply guide the patrons to the table; one must engage in mindless small talk about what they did, where they’re from, etc. Mind you, this trek to the table is not even a minute long, yet you have to talk to them about something. Usually, when the guests are in a good mood or there are kids in the party, it’s easy-flowing conversation. When the people are from New Jersey? Fuggedaboutit. People from Jersey don't actually talk like that. At least not the Jersey folk I know. I stick around after they’re seated and talk about how great Jersey is. One time a family from Jersey asked if I was going to be their waitress and looked crestfallen when I told them I’m just the seater. Was that bragging? Damn right, my proudest moment as a cast member. Other times, there are guests who don’t have the crushing desire to talk just like me, which is awkward anyway because here I am guiding them to a table in total silence. It shouldn’t be awkward, but Disney and Traditions trained me to think it is the worst thing to happen in customer service. The entire seating process at The Wave and other Disney restaurants is essentially like any other eating establishment in the country. The only difference is that you’re in Disney and have to rave about how magical Disney is. Sigh. That’s enough about the mechanics. 

An offshoot of this location was Top of the World Lounge over at Bay Lake Tower. There, I just led Vacation Club guests to an elevator, waved my magic key card to allow them access to the rooftop lounge, and spent most of my shift reading a crime pulp novel I found at the desk there. I had to mention Top of the World because I bring it up later in the post. Oh yeah, this is a long one. I enjoyed my time at The Wave very much. I liked all the servers and they liked me, I loved my co-workers and the management didn’t seem so bad until I started working at another, clearly superior restaurant. Remember the hot spot known as the California Grill I mentioned earlier? Well, the benevolent souls of Disney decided to relocate me there during the busy season. Hooray! On my first day at the Grill, I was noticeably miserable. I did not want to be there because my home was at The Wave. On top of that, I felt like the new kid at some uppity school my parents forced me to move to. Eventually, as with most things, I got used to the Grill and, dare I say it, began to enjoy working there more than The Wave. The California Grill is an upscale eatery with an ever-changing menu of culinary delicacies and astronomical prices. The food there was genuinely delicious and aesthetically presented, I guarantee it. The management there was profoundly apt and knowledgeable about their product and the service they provide for guests. Jesus, someone knows how to use a thesaurus. This isn’t schmoozing either, I was really impressed with their collective know-how. Of course, it wasn’t always perfect, as fancy restaurants often have ridiculous expectations to uphold, like standing a certain distance away from the podium and greeting guests right when they come off the elevator. Oh yeah, this restaurant is on the top floor of the Contemporary in case you didn’t know. Snooty bitch. One position I had at the Grill was elevator attendant which I loved at first because there isn’t much work to do. However, I soon began to dread this position as it required riding up with a room full of guests...and making small talk. Why I ever loved that position, I have no idea. As I became more acquainted with the Grill, they started to rotate me around several positions: greeter (again, my favorite), seater, stocker (which I did once barely), and rounds/rover. That last one is actually one of my favorite positions and it was the one I feared being assigned the most, as it required setting tables once guests have left. It sounds high-stress and it really is, yet the time just flew by as I set and reset nearly a hundred tables per night. I don't know how accurate that statistic is. The overall environment at the Grill was fun, if you can call work fun, and prestigious. I felt so fancy working for such a high-brow establishment. That feeling would wear off from time to time because work, ya know, sucks. I admit, there was an aspect of working at the Grill that made it way more enjoyable than any job. You guessed it, it was a guy who worked there that I began to “date.” Well not really date, in the classical sense, but we were casually seeing each other. I hate this modern rendition of dating too, don’t you worry. After a few months of loving the Grill and the thick paycheck that came along with it, Disney sent me back to the basement that is The Wave. By that time, my Program was nearing its end and I had started feeling sentiments of “I want to go the fuck home already.” So moving back to The Wave was a shit on my little parade. Moreover, after working at the Grill, I began to see how ineffective the management at The Wave was as well as how tirelessly they tried to be more like the Grill. That’ll never happen, by the way. As I am writing this, I discovered that a manager from The Wave named Ray has recently ascended to the echelons of California Grill. Cheers to you Ray, you are forever my favorite Disney manager. Overall, working at Disney was an experience I’d never regret. It made me realize that hospitality is not a field I want to pursue and because of Disney I changed my major to something more marketable in the modern career landscape. Marketing, I changed my major to marketing. Even if Disney isn’t a place I would work for again, it was an experience (there’s that word again) that I will cherish for years to come. P.S. I just realized I could have titled this segment, “Whistle While You Work.” It’s from the same fucking movie too.

January 28, 2017: Here, you find me sitting on my bed after discovering that Mark Wahlberg was at Epcot that day. No, I did not get to meet Marky Mark, in case you couldn't sniff that out by the pathetic scene of me crying. From that day on, my roommates teased me about the incident by shouting MARK whenever we passed a golf course. Because Marky Mark loves his golfing. I am still not over this.

You’ve Got a Friend in Me: Perhaps the most impactful thing I can take away from Disney was the friends I’ve made during my time there. Kate, Rachel, Brandon, Megan, to name a few. These four people in particular I consider to be my best friends, in addition to the few friends I have left here in Jersey. No matter how bleak things turned out in Disney, no matter how much I claim to regret the entire program altogether, I know I could never regret coming to Orlando because the friends I’ve made are unforgettable treasures. They have become intricate parts of my heart and I cannot imagine life without these goons. I’ll reflect on some times I’ve shared with them to beef up this portion of the post. 

Rachel left the program about a month in yet I still value her as one of my closest friends. She and I have had more than a few dates around Disney, starting with 50s Prime Time cafe. All dressed up, we wanted to savor our time together as best as possible. We are some classy dames, no question about it. At 50s, she proved herself to be a keen wing woman as I gave my number to our waiter there. Beyond that, of course, we formed a bond that involved passive aggressive post-its, zany adventures in the park, and Kodak moment inside jokes that we still reference to this day. And who (besides those who weren’t there) could forget the Hit It Chronicles?* All in all, she’s become one of my best friends and I love her so much. Right here she would respond, “that’s weird, but okay.” That was one of the inside jokes, pretty obvious. 

Miss Kate is my birthday twin, so we rang in the age of 21 merely hours apart. There is no definitive moment I have with Kate that captures our time together in Disney. In other words, every memory I have with her sort of blends into one which makes it sounds as though she's just like any other person I met there, but in reality it's the complete opposite. The reason all these memories we had blend together is because she and I were in this DCP whirlwind side-by-side the entire time. Our experiences mirrored one another in a way, with the exceptions of certain places and people, and we were there for each other for every minute of it. Kate is my day one, which I realize is a cringeworthy title. From our very first meeting to late-night conversations in our shared bedroom at Vista 1212 to chain-smoking due to the necessary ranting about work to congregating at Ale House to the bittersweet end of our program, Kate and I have trekked through Orlando and had some real talk/real funny/real mortifying moments together. I love this Southern cunt to the moon and back. West on 20 without a plan and with a car we can’t afford, baby (driver).

Megan—my actual birthday twin as we share the exact same date—was a late addition to the Disney squad, having met her through Brandon from his location. From the moment I met her, I wish we had been introduced sooner. Nevertheless, she became a dear, dear friend. Better late than never, eh Brandon? This gorgeous lady named Megan, who is an uncanny lookalike of Olivia Munn by the way, has given me hilarious and sweet memories I look fondly back on. One instance was when she and I went to Marley’s at Universal CityWalk. We weren’t there for long given the strength of the cocktails my friend, Jon, made for us. I have connections all over Orlando now, side note. After two or three drinks, we stumbled back to the parking lot as Megan feverishly sipped on her ice water. Whenever she and I are together, we are breathless with senseless laughter and, safe to say, I love my wife Megan more than words can describe. Notice a pattern here? I love all my lady friends with endless devotion and passion.

And then there was Brandon. I have to preface this by saying we are two sarcastic bastards who revel in our shared misanthropy. We’re both assholes is what I’m saying. The first time we met, he was showcasing his violin skills, albeit reluctantly, and I was amazed. I thought to myself, “Who IS this Brandon?” Then a while after, as I’m sitting outside my apartment smoking a cigarette (I thought would be my last), I grab him from my stoop and offer him one. And lo and behold, Brandon smokes. I’d find out later he smokes just as much as me, and if you’re not a smoker you don’t know the utter joy it is to find a fellow smoker. Yeah yeah yeah, we’re awful people. Soon Brandon would become my absolute best male friend, without a doubt. He and I enjoy each other’s company by just sitting in a quiet room. Within seconds, we’d find something to laugh about, even the silence itself. We always—I repeat always—have a good time just being in each other’s presence. This could be one-sided, I wouldn’t be surprised if he hated my guts. Oh, the friends I have made in the land of Disney. Again, and with extra magical feeling, I can’t thank Walt enough for bringing these wonderful people into my life.

*La Bella Notte: Wow, look at you finding the asterisk. You attentive and curious reader you. I realize that when you throw in a unique term like Hit It Chronicles, without any context whatsoever, it’s going to ruffle some feathers. “What in the world—is she just not going to elaborate on that?! That goddamn tease, posting months at a time and acting as if she’s a gift to the English language. I bet everyone hated her in Disney and here she is talking about how great…oh look an asterisk.” Anyway, the Hit It Chronicles is a one-night-only event where it wasn’t an event at all. In fact, it was just the four of us goons drinking in a Disney hotel (discounts, ya’ll) because the majority of us were not of legal age to purchase alcohol. The origins of the name stem from the night Kate and I first met Brandon. As I previously stated, he was playing his violin to the shock and awe of his Alpha-male roommates. One roommate, Al beith his name, started shooting off requests at Brandon for him to play. As he was snapping his fingers to recall the name of the next song he wanted Brandon to play, it struck him: “Um, um, um. Bella Notte, scene from Lady and the Tramp with the spaghetti…hit it.” And indeed, we hit it. Hit it right over to Coronado Springs for the first and only installment of the Hit It Chronicles. Yes, we had to be quote-unquote extra and name our special night of bonding and camaraderie. I should clarify who was in attendance: Brandon, Kate, Rachel, myself…and one special guest star. Enter Anton, the waiter Rachel helped me pick up at 50s Prime Time. Ah yes, ’twas a night to remember as we all got sloppy on mixed drinks, courtesy of Brandon who was twenty-one at the time. One especially memorable tidbit that my friends will never never let me forget is the antelope noise. Well, I’ll tell you just what that is. Anton and I got very well-acquainted that night, our first time hanging out together, and…yada yada yada…we found a comfy, not-so-discreet spot in the bathroom—the tub, we found the tub—and I proceeded to respond to him with antelope noises. You heard it here, folks, I am a vulgar person who evidently erupts in animalistic yelps when I am intoxicated and, ahem, excited. I hope you’ve enjoyed this asterisk and the tale of the Hit It Chronicles that accompanies it.

February 9, 2017: The night of the aforementioned Hit It Chronicles. Brandon reveled in a victory of Cards Against Humanity with this hand because I am an objectively awful judge. Still think this is hilarious though.

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious: Because that’s how I felt about turning 21, bitches. It’s a word you use when you don’t know what to say, I fucking know relax. Sorry for the hostility, I’ll move on. Turning 21 at the most magical place on earth is quite the euphoric experience. My birthday was about a month into the program and I counted the days until I could legally drink. Notice how I say legally to imply that I’ve been drinking for quite some time. I turned 21 at midnight on my birthday, naturally, and I had just gotten off my evening shift at the Wave. I am not exaggerating when I say that every person working there knew exactly what I was going to do after work. That’s right folks, I went home and I didn’t drink. My day of debauchery would take place at the only logical place to get drunk: Epcot’s World Showcase. I had dreamt of this moment for years and years, ever since I acquired the alcoholic’s badge of dishonor. I was absolutely giddy to be there, ready to imbibe heavily on some expensive beverages. I went with Kate, who was turning 21 at midnight that day (her birthday is a day after mine, catch up), and our first stop was France. I went up to the counter, ordered two mimosas, and when the French cast member asked for my ID, I whipped that card out like it was a goddamn medal and successfully retrieved my first legal purchase of alcohol.

Kate took a picture of me, triumphantly double fisting mimosas, and I savored that flute of sweet, sweet nectar. I sent a picture to my friend, Alina, and she said I was glowing from how much I’ve grown in Disney and how confident I’ve become. But really it was the buzz. Side note: I did become significantly more confident in Disney, hence why it is an experience I cherish. In case that hasn’t been clear already. After France, I believe Italy was next because, according to my camera roll, Kate and I were happily drinking Rosa Regale. After that, I have a video of me dancing to a song while Kate drives my happy ass back to our apartment. This is going to be a chronological play-by-play of my 21st birthday, so if you don’t like drunken accounts of stupid girls, please read on. I say that as if everything until now wasn’t a drunk girl’s memory. Do drunk girls even have memories? After I slept off my sunlit hangover, Anton—the waiter from 50s Prime Time Cafe—took us all out to a bar. By took “us” out, I mean me, Kate the birthday girl, Brandon my hetero life-mate, and Tabby because she guilted us into taking her (just kidding, I invited her I can be nice). Because the minor tagged along, we had to find an 18+ bar as opposed to the 21+ bar we were goddamn entitled to now. Nevertheless, we all had a great time. Anton took us to Knight’s Pub which was essentially a flashback to high school parties. Everyone at the bar was legal to drink, despite their infantile behavior, and in college hence the college bar. Drinks were ridiculously cheap so Kate and I were peachy keen. The music playing outside was on point, I have to note, as throwback bangers like “Face Down” and “Holiday” were playing for all the drunk toddlers to hear. I also recall having Anton’s arms wrapped around me the entire night in a totally sweet and not obnoxious-couple way. That was nice. Following what turned out to be a lovely, memorable birthday, Kate and I delved deep into the freshly-minted twenty-one year old archetype: we became alcoholics. This could be an exaggeration, but the truth of the matter is we drank often and in excess. From our birthdays to the end of the program, we drank an absurd amount of alcohol which led to various indiscretions that we would either regret or applaud each other for. My most pleasant memories involve drinking at Miller’s Ale House, a safe haven for after-work fiends such as myself. That’s right, in a land of magic like Walt Disney World, my happiest memories were casually drinking Floridian IPAs, chain-smoking with Kate and various other friends. We became regulars at the outdoor bar of Ale House, acquiring “our” server, Tracy, a gorgeous tattooed man who is one of few to rock a man bun. Thinking about it now, I can only recall cheery memories from Ale House; never had there been a squabble or reason for tears. That family-unfriendly bar became our mecca, a place where we could gather to bitch about work, laugh at nonsense, and drink our troubles away as we grew enamored in glee. Not the television show, it is an actual word don’t ya know? All in all, as likely as alcohol can get me into questionable predicaments, my time drinking throughout the Disney College Program was better than any binge I can envision.

May 4, 2017: Star Wars Day. While drinking with coworkers at Player One, I see Brenden McNerney playing a retro arcade game across from where I'm sitting. Then, as if that wasn't stunning enough, Danny Gonzalez walks up to him, beer in hand. What else could I do but approach them for a selfie? I even said to them, "I don't mean to bring attention to you guys, but I think you're both hilarious and I loved Vine." As I was combusting with starstruck giddiness, my friends judged me relentlessly, which I guess makes sense if you don't appreciate the gem that Vine was. Nevertheless.

Can You Feel the Love Tonight?: Oh, you knew this was coming. Do you really think I am going to prance all around Orlando and not stumble upon a guy or five in the process? And do you really think I would withhold such private accounts? Silly, misinformed reader. Of course, I will not divulge any personal information, like full names or pictures, nor will I be too graphic in my testimonies. This is a family-friendly blog after all—oh shut up. Now, I actually started a micro-memoir about this very subject in regards to my time in Disney, and as of now it is fourteen pages single-spaced so I am not going to share all of it here. Most of it is quite serious, more Tumblr fodder to be honest, so I will merely provide verbal snapshots of each guy I encountered there with whom I had, ahem, relations with. Consider this the Carrie Bradshaw segment of this post.

1. Matthew. I met him in the kitchen of The Wave during my culinary day of training. I spent the entire day in a white culinary jacket and striped pajama pants, an ensemble that he thought looked cute on me, but in reality I looked like Jack Skellington if he went on Hell’s Kitchen. When I first saw Matthew, he spoke with a British accent, immediately drawing me to him. I know, I’m weird, let’s move past it. He was also super tall—6' 6", I think?—with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He sort of resembled Cillian Murphy, only freakishly tall. And not Cillian Murphy. That’s what resembles means. This post isn’t even close to finished. Something about Matthew pulled me towards him, it was the strangest thing. Every conversation was charged with an unexplainable chemistry. It was overwhelming, to be honest. He came off as very self-assured, which impressed me. Oh, in case I didn’t clarify, he was not actually British. He admitted to speaking with an accent because he is quote-unquote weird. Whoa, just like me, except hold on because no he’s actually weird, but we’ll get there. I spent a few nights at his place where we would watch movies and drink that good stuff. I was still twenty years old, mind you, so he supplied the beverages since he was thirty-two years old and could swing that sort of thing. See how I slid that in there? That’s what he said, except we never did. Yes, thirty-two year-old Matthew and I never did the deed, but I mention him here because, as you can see, he had quite an impact on me. His excuse for not jumping right into bed with me was that he wanted to get to know me better, and this reason was apparently a dealbreaker for horny little me back in February of 2017. In retrospect, that rationale is not awful at all. Isn’t that how sex should happen? Not just an impulsive, desperate act of impatience? Let me just say again how much I hate my generation. Although he was not quite as potent as future guys I talk about, Matthew was a guy I could hold a conversation with about movies and about anything else really. I had been dreaming of having this kind of stimulating rapport with a guy. Sadly, he turned out to be too weird in the end. It wasn't the dry spell that soured things for me, by the way, I wouldn't consider myself that depraved. Thirty-two years old and he drops the “I love you” bomb on me after a week of seeing each other. Nope. Not in my Disney experience. Well, not with you anyway.
2. Anton. The waiter from 50s Prime Time, yes that’s right. He has a name. Anton was the one guy I have no regrets with, and the one guy I regret treating so indifferently. This might be the most heartfelt segment of the bunch, just so you know. He was the first one I slept with on my adventure in Orlando. (See: Hit It Chronicles.) He’s a tall Puerto Rican man with a dad bod and a voice akin to Joe Manganiello. What instantly attracted me to Anton was his laid-back demeanor and overall sense of humor. Not necessarily funny ha-ha; he just had a positive, chill outlook on life that allowed him to see amusement in anything which in turn pleases those around him. He sure pleased me anyway. Following our first night together in the bathtub—cue antelope noises—I would spend many nights at Anton’s lovely home, one he bought and owned. It was a really nice house, too. Not that it matters. I would usually go straight from work, but one time I went over in the afternoon before he went to work. We had sex, naturally, and spent most of the time cuddling and talking. Anton, being the lovable idiot he is, forgot that he was due at work at one o’clock not three. Add onto the idiot factor that his car was somewhere in Celebration after a drunken night, he had no ride until I came over. I watched with mild amusement as he hurriedly showered and dressed for work. Despite his tardiness, however, he asked me to stop at Wendy’s for food. As mundane a story as this is, I cherish memories like this. No drama, no theatrics, no games. Just a funny story about an endearingly dumb and sweet guy named Anton. It’s moments like that that make me hate myself for leaving in pursuit of something more exciting, which translates to messy and complicated in the long run. But with Anton, things were so easy, so comfortable. I’m an idiot, and not in an adorable way. Now, the sex was really good with Anton—Kate, Rachel, and Brandon can all attest to that—but what I really enjoyed was cuddling with him, being close to him. When he teased me about how what we had was a relationship, I would playfully hit him and smile at the thought of it. I was content if not downright happy with being exclusive with him. And he was the one to make that move. There was no doubting, no wondering what “this” was. He told me he would be jealous if another guy came into my life. He told me that he wanted to get couple’s massages and maybe take a cruise one day. He made me feel wanted, but beyond that he made me feel secure. Knowing that my stay in Orlando was temporary, he told me that if I ever came back that he would still be there for me. That may be just something people say, but knowing Anton and how he is, that is quite a bold statement. Of all the guys I was involved with in Orlando, Anton was the one I felt truly comfortable and happy with. After all was said and done, I can honestly admit that not devoting myself to Anton was among the biggest mistakes I made. If I had stayed committed to only him, so much damage and drama could have been avoided. Writing this all out makes me realize how much I miss Anton, which is fucked up because I had him in my life. I’m the one who threw that away, and when things turned south in Orlando is when I start to miss him. For this reason, I want to allow Anton to find someone who will appreciate him instantly and always, without the urge to venture elsewhere. I will always care for Anton. That is all.
3. Brett. Otherwise known as the Two Week Bender. I met Brett through my coworker, Adrienne, from the Wave, who invited me out to Kitty O’Shea’s, a place where I would soon become a regular. I asked if I could invite Kate, my roommate. Then, in a stark turn of events, Adrienne asked if Kate was into random hookups, elaborating by saying her roommate, Brett, was into CPs. Little did I know that I would be the CP he hooked up with that night. Life sure is funny, innit? Upon first look, Brett was, well, short. Very short, five foot three to be exact. He was a bit of a fuckboy upon first glance. Nothing wrong with that, not as long as you’re honest and live up to your fuckboy title and don't manipulate others into thinking you're anything but a fuckboy. What drew me to him most, as ridiculous as it sounds, was his voice. He sounded exactly—and I’m not exaggerating here—exactly like Charlie Day, which was a massive fucking turn on for me. I said exactly twice, I am aware. Every time his voice heightened in pitch and he was screaming for emphasis, it felt like Charlie Day was in the room. Cannot stress this enough: huge turn-on for me. Throughout the night, Brett actually made an effort to get to know me which I’ll admit was sweet. I had an audience for my Oscar and general film knowledge with Brett and especially Jon, the other roommate. Brett and I actually held a deep conversation until the bar closed. That was, to my memory, our only sober exchange of meaningful words. Subsequent encounters mostly involved him ranting about some archaic subject or me teasing him mercilessly. As the night continued and more drinks were downed by the hour, Adrienne eventually invited me back to their place to prolong the drunken merriment. The first of many nights at their house is a bit fuzzy considering the amount of alcohol in my system. Most nights are vague memories resulting from numerous brown-outs, though I do remember having oodles of fun. How can you not have fun with that much alcohol, am I right? It became a sort of routine of mine: wake up, waste time before work, go to work, go to Kitty’s and drink, go to Adrienne’s house, drink some more, sleep with Brett. While there was zero emotional connection on my end, at least initially, he became attached very quickly. He repeatedly asked me not to leave Orlando once my program was up, he treated me like a girlfriend when we were out together, all that jazz. He actually still expresses these sentiments to this day, usually over drunken FaceTimes in the middle of the night. Ain't romance grand? Granted, most of the time we were together was when we were drunk, and I’m very accepting of affection when I drink. But at the end of every night—or beginning of every morning I should say—I knew that what we had was temporary and, above all, purely casual. I will admit that I felt myself growing attached to the hobbit because when Brett was good he was so much fun to be with. I genuinely enjoyed talking to him when he was actually coherent. He was passionate about his interests and he expressed that well. He made me laugh, a key quality I search for in guys. I try to justify my being with him, yet I cannot help but wonder if these endearing qualities were viewed through a drunken lens. If so, that makes the entire thing insincere, doesn’t it? Told you Carrie Bradshaw would sneak in there. As unbearable as he could be when he breached his limits, as much as I couldn’t stand him at some points, I only focus on the good times I had with him. Which is precisely what you should do with memories past, right? If there were redeemable moments shared, keep those in mind rather than lament and regret the bad. Once more with feeling, Brett was fun to be with. He was my funny, cuddly Charlie Day, so I chose to ignore the bad in him. Until I shook myself out of that delusional, dangerous mindset and started looking out for my own well-being. Personal growth for the win. For now. He and I are still in touch, so if by chance he ends up reading this, I want him to know that I still care about him, which more than I can say about a lot of guys I met in Disney. But rest assured, you're still an asshole.
4. Jason. Okay, look, this post is already getting out of hand in terms of length. This really isn’t even worth mentioning. He did have a pug, though. Next.
5. Miller. Oh, fuck. See, this is exactly why I need to be short and sweet with the other guys because this one is a doozy. In that mini-memoir I alluded to earlier, this guy alone makes up seven pages. That’s right, fucking half of my male encounter accounts are about this jabroni. Reading over what I had, however, my sentiments have changed. Granted, I did have serious feelings for him once upon a dream, but now they’ve mellowed into a cordial, mutual respect. I will make this as seamless and quick as possible. This is going to require some alcohol. I met Miller on the first day of my deployment to California Grill. As I stated previously, for the first few weeks or so, I was miserable there. I felt like the new kid from some hokey small town who had just transferred to a big city school. I was away from the home I had at the Wave and exposed to strange new faces. One of those strange new faces belonged to Miller, who I initially felt indifferent towards. He wasn’t unattractive, I just didn’t feel an instantaneous spark with him. Although, from what I heard around the proverbial water cooler, he did have something to say about me: Yeah, I’d bang her. Lo and behold, ladies and gents, we got ourselves another fuckboy in Disney! Now, this persona does not bother me at all and, as crude as it is, I was flattered that he had this opinion of me. I acknowledged how crude it is, ease up on the judgment. It wasn’t until about a month into California Grill that Miller and I finally clicked and it all started with a Facebook comment. That’s right, my standards are that low and my desperation is that high. After he commented on a post I made—this was back when I had Facebook, a mistake I deleted right after the program ended—I invited him out for drinks that same night. And so it began, with what should have been a meaningless comment on a goddamn Facebook post. Our first “date,” I guess you could call it, took place at Player One, an arcade that is decked out with a bar (a.k.a. a barcade, duh). It wasn’t until that night at Player One that I began to find Miller to be really attractive. Slightly taller than me so I was happy. Full yet trimmed beard, which I would later discover is impeccably groomed and not scratchy in the slightest. Dad bod, always a win. And those damn Hawaiian shirts he always wore. After a few hours of beating him at Super Smash Bros., I sensed the night coming to a close. “Not so fast,” paraphrased Miller, as he asked if I wanted to come back to his place to watch movies. Heck yeah, I want to watch movies and slowly start to fall for you. It was at his apartment on the first night we started talking that I discovered how much I liked him. Already? Yes, because it was just like that. He revealed his passion for movies, how he wrote an actual screenplay, which was music to my cinephile ears because, duh, I love movies. We were also TV twins, meaning the shows he loved were shows I loved, Seinfeld included. Fucking Seinfeld. Goddamn it, Miller. Beyond our mutual interests, I just loved talking to him. I felt comfortable with him, at least in the beginning. Further beyond that, there was a physical chemistry between us that I had not realized until we were alone in his apartment. I won't get into details, this being a wholesome blog and all, but I will acknowledge that he and I were very compatible in that area; we both knew how to get the other going in terms of...stimulation. Naturally, he and I ended up making out on his couch that first night until we got to the point of taking things further. Usually, my response would be an instant yes, especially after passion like that. But I said something wholly unlike me: I told him that yes I want to have sex, but asked if he would think less of me if I just gave in there and then. Being a guy who wants to have sex, he said of course not. Sex is sex. I quickly acquiesced. Sex is sex. As I said earlier, I will not get into graphic detail but I will be Samantha for a second and say that I don’t remember having such intense, passionate, amazing sex. I’m aware a whole variety of people are most likely reading this, including my parents, and I apologize for the over-sharing but this is a comprehensive post about my time in Disney goddamn it. Ahem. The next morning, he walked me back to my car and we said our goodbyes. Later, I did see him at work where he was stocking wines. He looked up at me walking to pre-shift and smiled. I smiled back. And this was the pattern du jour we fell into for the next two weeks: work, drinks, movie night, cue saxophone music. I want to wrap this up before I get too sappy and nostalgic because this really was the highlight of my college program which makes me gag to admit. I am an independent woman working at Disney, and a man is the highlight of all that? You sentimental, hopeless romantic moron. The reason I am tempted to make a chunky post out of this one guy is because he was the one I felt the strongest connection to. At the time, I sincerely liked him, way more than I anticipated for the short time we knew each other. I guess it’s like Figment says, one little spark is enough to make a dream come true. GODDAMN IT, that putrid cheesy sentiment just had to sneak in. Yes, all caps were necessary. All awkward humor aside, Miller is a genuinely good guy. As pompous and chauvinistic as he can be, he is still a smart and hilarious guy who in my opinion can definitely get it. And let’s face it, I am incredibly attracted to over-confidence and the occasional asshole—the cockiness is part of Miller’s charm. As he will end up reading this, rest assured that I strictly see you solely as my asshole friend I met at Disney. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Wubba lubba dub dub, I guess.
6. Aaron. Absolute wretched human being. Used me to weasel out of his engagement. Currently preying upon another hapless whore, or so I assume. Fuck this guy.

A Whole New World: In addition to turning twenty-one and reveling in the delights of buying my own alcohol, I was immersed in an entirely new and strange environment. Back during my first year of college, I lived in Baltimore on my own so the independent experience was familiar to me. Yet somehow, within this magical sabbatical of mine so much farther away from home, it was radically different. I had stepped into my element, truly and for the first time in (for)ever. As a self-proclaimed Disney World geek, I was now living among the fairytale, a dream within a dream you could say. There are countless, seemingly inconsequential memories I have living in Florida, and they are the type of things that you could barely call “memories.” Driving up and down 535—which my fellow savvy honorary Floridians will know is the highway adjacent to Walt Disney World—is one particular fond “memory” I reminisce about, especially when I'm driving in this ghastly Jersey heat. I should be dying in Florida heat, dammit. Going to have breakfast at Keke’s, a true culinary treasure in case you haven’t heard, which served affordable yet delicious food that was the manna that cured my many hangovers. Smoking outside our apartment to the scorn of passersby, bitching about work and our lives despite being the happiest we’ve ever been deep inside. Vista Way, particularly our charming, mold-covered apartment 1212 where we resided for the original duration of our program. To this day, I consider that parasite trap a home. Then the DCP patrol forced us to move to Patterson Court for our extension, where we would live out our remaining month and a half. Seriously, Housing? You couldn't let us stay at Vista for a few more weeks? No, let's just banish the idiot CPs who chose to extend and make them pack and unpack in the sweltering heat, only to have them pack again when their program ended a month or so later. Fuckers. Walking to and from work for me meant coming and in and out of the Contemporary Resort, a hotel I’ve always cherished as a guest visiting Disney, and now I actually worked there. Every night after work, I would sluggishly walk to my car and in the distance I’d see Space Mountain aglow. Hell, Magic Kingdom was practically a stone throw away from where I worked, and it was simply incredible. The view from atop Bay Lake Tower, when there was no one around, just before opening, was the epitome of bliss. It is the highest point in all of Disney World and you were able to see the property in all its glory. 

Another major point I haven’t even mentioned yet (unless I did then this is awkward) was the fact that I could get into the parks for free. An experience guests spend thousands of dollars on was absolutely free for me, if you don’t count succumbing to cheap labor a cost. Hollywood Studios was home to our most cherished memories, and by “our,” I am referring to my incredible and lovely roommates. From riding the Tower of Terror on a loop to smoking at Echo Lake, this movie-inspired park was an undeniable favorite of mine. Allow me to take this moment to mourn the loss of a truly great ride. Not just any great ride, The Great Movie Ride. This has always been a cherished amusement for me, as cheesy and (near its end) downright awful the presentation could have been. You could tell the cast members just weren’t trying anymore, which plays into the ride’s demise. Despite lackluster entertainers and outdated animatronics, I consider this ride to be perfect in its entirety. It was a Disney treasure that the powers that be just stripped from the fabric of magic. Fuck Disney, Inc. and R.I.P. Great Movie Ride. Epcot, unsurprisingly, became a staple of my day-off visits, and I think you all know why. While I never drank around the world in its entirety—Mexico to Canada, that is—I did have my share of drinking in the World Showcase during my days off. These were memorable visits, beginning with my 21st birthday christening, as I got hashtag-lit with my friends, my fellow alcoholics. Future World has a special place in my heart, too. I just love that ambient music they play throughout, the one that drives my Electric Umbrella cast member buddies insane. Magic Kingdom, meanwhile, is a putrid tourist trap overflowing with sweat and impatient heathens. Yes, the Tragic Kingdom, as it became to be known among most Disney cast members, is a place to visit the first few weeks of your program then never again. My only reason for strolling along Main Street U.S.A. was to watch Carousel of Progress and listen to "There's A Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow" for the umpteenth time. Of course, the grotesquely commercial land of fantasy will always have that pesky nostalgic factor. Why else would I still make the effort of going there as recent as this past May? It is a deceptively magical place whose production value is, in my stupid opinion, amazing and alluring. Tragic Kingdom, nevertheless. As for the fourth park, I scarcely went to Animal Kingdom. Even with the grand and long-awaited opening of Pandora, I went to the park two maybe three times. As impressive as Pandora is, exclusively at night, I just could not trouble myself to trek all the way out to the glorified zoo. As you can see, with that all of that being said, it was the little things that truly made my Disney College Program an experience to remember. The little things are what make me truly miss Orlando. While I encountered my share of downfalls and infuriating debacles, I felt like a genuine Floridian as though I belonged there. Even now, nearly a year since my program ended and I eagerly rushed back home, I still have an intense inkling that I do belong in Florida. Despite my occasional bitching and moaning about how Orlando is essentially a swamp for tourists, the urge to move back to the island is overpowering. Then again, just like in Lost, is it really in my best interest to go back to a place where, despite my many happy memories, I experienced sincere trauma? Granted, it was nothing life-threatening like that black fog monster in the show, but there are landmarks in Florida where I feel pangs of guilt, of discomfort, of cringe. Cue the record scratch. I debated on sharing the negative perspective of my time in Disney but I decided against it because (1) this post is too fucking long already, and (2) I want to look back on my Disney experience in as rosy a lens as I can. What is the point of dwelling on the bad when there was so much happiness to remember? What I will say about the mistakes I made—including what was undoubtedly my biggest fuck-up to date—is that yes, I do regret them. That goes without saying. I wish I could go back and white-out all the stupidity I engaged in and caused, but since life doesn’t give us the ability to do that all I can do is repent and move on. Most importantly, I can use the magical memories to block out the bad. Sounds like a healthy defense mechanism to me.

When You Wish Upon a Star: Well. That is my Disney experience in a nutshell. Despite my cynical outlook and general unpleasantness as a human, my time in Disney truly was the most magical of my life thus far. It just goes to show that when you wish upon a star, anything your heart desires will come to you. And it really makes no difference who you are because here I am, a bonafide asshole, and I got accepted into the college program on my first try. Who’d a thunk it? Now, I think I’ve shared more than enough about my memories. One might say I’ve overstayed my welcome here on the Internet for the time being. See ya real soon.

Final shout out to some people I did not mention up there: Tabby, our foul-mouthed, quirky fourth roommate who grew so much during the program and proved it by surviving quick service in Animal Kingdom during the opening of Pandora; Liam, our kiwi neighbor who lived across the hall and took it upon himself to come by unannounced and brighten our day; Becca, Jonathan, Ray, Lety, Alicia, Brian, and everyone else at The Wave who made working there bearable and even enjoyable at times; Emily, Ann Marie, Claudius, Andrew, Mae, Miller, Amy, Kaite, Gia, Ashley, Martha, Scott, Werner, Mary, Clayton, Jazz, Andrey, Dennis, deep breath all you guys from California Grill, thank you for making my second work home a supremely fun one; Adrienne, a coworker from the Wave who introduced me to the seedy yet entertaining world of drinking at Kitty O’Shea’s; Phylicia, another drinking buddy of mine who is gorgeous, fun as all hell, and clearly not thirty years old; Jon, the aforementioned bartender from Marley’s who never fails to challenge me at movie trivia games, most notably Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon; and, last but not least, Walt Disney himself because I am a corny, basic bitch who has to give due to the man who allowed all these memories to happen.

P.S. I posted this after midnight, meaning I posted it a day after my last day working for Disney. This was not due to procrastination but to technical difficulties as the undo feature thought it would be a hoot if it undid everything I had written. Fortunately, I had a copy saved to my laptop, but I had to re-upload pictures and do some finishing touches that took longer than expected on account of lagging WiFi and general shit luck. Whatever, close enough. Good afternoon, good evening, and good night.