Walking out of the barber felt like shedding a bad dream. The kind that clings even after you wake.
Hair, once overgrown and limp, now cropped sharp at the sides, styled with enough off to last a while. My sides were co.pletely faded but would soon grow back in time, completely clean. I'd need some hair products on the island to keep it in check.
I caught my reflection in a store window and tilted my chin slightly upward, studying the shape of my face again.
Clearer now. Less obscured by neglect. The cheekbones weren't bad. Jawline definitely salvageable, just need to go on a slight deficiet. I could work with this. I would work with this.
I was going to be famous again.
The automatic doors of the grocery store hissed open, and I was greeted with the over chilled breath of corporate air. The fluorescents buzzed quietly overhead, casting a sterile glow over the tile floor. I grabbed a cart, wiped it down and let my hands settle on the cool bar for a second.
Then I walked in, headed straight for the produce.
It was surreal, almost funny, to think that two weeks ago I'd subsisted on instant ramen and the occasional stolen granola bar from a gas station. Now I was calculating macros and micronutrients, obsessing over lean proteins and complex carbohydrates like a man desprate on my 600lb life.
A sharp right turn brought me to the land of kale and broccoli. Apples gleamed like christmas ornaments. Grapes shimmered in plastic bags, beads of condensation clinging like dew.
"Time to change." I muttered to myself.
But this wasn't simply about fueling my body though.
Everything I did now was performance. A ritual formed through my lifes work. Every bite, every rep, even every breath. All of it was part of my audition, not just for the producers.
No, the real audience would be watching later. The camera wouldn't be rolling yet, but the character had to exist long before the tape. Before I was cast, I had to become the role.
That's the part no one understood.
Many if not most people stumbled onto reality shows as exaggerated versions of themselves. Loud, annoying, bland little archetypes. Walk on cartoons. But I wasn't aiming to be just another pawn for a companies entertainment.
I was going to rulel the film.
Dramaturgical theory. Most people have never heard of it. But I lived by it.
In basic terms? It's simply the idea that life is a stage and people are merely players. Every social interaction is a performance. Your body, your words, your smile, all props and lines. The audience or more appropriately everyone else reacts to who you present. And you? You're either the director of your image, or a joke someone else wrote.
I never let anyone else write me. I was desire incarnate.
I bagged a dozen apples. Both red and crisp. Visual impact mattered, even in the fridge. Green would've worked, sure, but red merely suited me better.
As I turned the cart toward the meat section, I paused at the grapes, grabbing a bundle absently. My hand moved, but my mind flicked about—briefly, to an old memory. One that has shaped me. Pain, It forms a heatmap across your life
When I had first tasted fame,and power back then, it had been like fire in my lungs. Not warm but Scalding. Everything I did was picked apart—body, face, movement. Everything. My talent had meant nothing when my cheekbones weren't high enough, when my posture sagged after 12-hour shoots, when I had cried once—just once—in a trailer with the blinds shut.
Weakness. Unforgivable.
And I had fixed it all. I had erased the stutter in my step, the hesitation in my eyes. I became a vision. An ideal.
I lost it. All of it.
But I would not be weak again.
Now, I had 46 days to forge something unforgettable. Something irresistible. And that started with the right meat.
Total Drama wasn't just a cartoon-turned-reality parody. It was a crucible. The producers crafted chaos like chefs in a demented kitchen. Alliances, betrayals, hidden immunity, classic game theory. Most people showed up thinking charm alone would carry them.
Idiots.
I placed two pounds of ground beef in the cart with a clean thunk. Chicken breasts followed next. Lean. Versatile. Symbolic, even. The food of transformation.
My phone buzzed in my pocket as I walked.
I didn't need to check, I knew what it was. I'd set reminders. Constant pulses to keep me on task. I pulled it out anyway.
Notes. A whole folder titled "Operation Drama".
Inside were some strategy breakdowns. episode summaries. Tutorials on how to read Maps drawn from glimpses of terrain, and hot mental map. Challenge analysis based on similar reality shows, Fear Factor, Survivor, even Japanese game shows that made contestants eat raw squid blindfolded.
Every possible variable, I could remember was being prepped.
Two tabs were starred in gold. The most important i had to learn before it officially started.
Wilderness cooking.
Hand washing clothes.
I couldn't eat chefs meals for an entire summer and smelling like a human being is undoubtedly top priority.
The contestants weren't my concern yet. It was the island, the production, the framework I needed to master. Knowing people was easy. Predicting cameras, editing, and narrative beats, that was the real game for me.
I turned the cart down the supplement aisle and reached for protein isolate. Vanilla. Not for taste. Just neutrality.
Flavor didn't matter. Only optics did and as long as it didn't taste like junk it was okay with me. To bad there was no creatine for sale, it was still too early in the time period.
But to be famous… just being skilled wasn't enough. I had to shine. Loudly. Cleanly. Brightly. They needed to want me—not just to win, but to return as a icin of the show.
I scrolled past the video links in my notes and stopped at another section.
Objective Overview:
Primary Directive: Get cast.
Secondary: Stand out immediately—visually, verbally, behaviorally.
Tertiary: Win hearts. Win the show.
Final: Exit as a household name.
My thumb hovered over the line I had added last night, during one of those moments that bordered on mania:
"You are not here to be liked. You are here to be inevitable."
I unloaded my items onto the conveyor at checkout. The beep of the scanner was rhythmic. Comforting.
I said nothing to the cashier. She was young. Hair in a tight bun. One earbud in, chewing gum like she hated the world. Probably did.
She glanced at the chicken, then at me. I saw the flicker. Maybe recognition. Maybe pity.
Let them look. I didn't flinch anymore. This face was becoming something. A chrysalis mid-shed.
A minute later, I was outside again. Cold bag handles biting into my fingers. I liked the pain.
It reminded me I was moving.
May 15th was approaching faster than anyone realized.
But not fast enough.