A little over six months ago, I sat alone with my luggage at the Rainforest Cafe on Las Vegas Boulevard, my back hunched more than usual and my face buried in my phone deeper than usual. Beads of sweat spawned on my forehead, slowly dripping into my jungle safari soup and seasoning my python pasta while I anxiously watched in real time as I became the butt of a massive internet joke between my coworkers and thousands of others.

And just like that — I was “Cocaine Kyle” and “KB Nose Swag,” the poster boy for finishing your* drugs and the laughing stock of the Barstool universe. But in all honesty, being a fake “coke guy” ended up not being so bad. After a while, the jokes became overblown and the reply guys ran out of decent one liners. I was in the clear…

Until last night when a grimy 30-year-old menace emerged from under the Ben Franklin bridge, dripping Philadelphia sewage and leaking an embarrassing photograph of me from many moons ago.

I’ll be honest — I’m still a little bit shaken up. Enough to explode? Ehh. I’m not ready to fully open up yet, but I doubt I will. Am I “okay?” Depends on who you ask. A real “Coke guy” might adamantly say no, but deep down he knows he’d be perfectly satisfied with this:

Yeah yeah, laugh it up. I’ll serve you all the upper hand on a silver platter. Let me guess — you saved it to your camera roll to use as “ammo” against me, but in reality, it will just be the canvas for your ammo.

So why did Adam, a coworker, co-host, and confidante of mine, decide to expose me exposing me? Would it be erroneous to believe there was a darker motive than just “clowning” one of his boys? Perhaps it stemmed from years of deep-seated jealousy that was slowly brewing inside of him.

Was it just a coincidence that a mere two weeks after I released one of my critically-acclaimed smash hits, he dropped a vine with the exact same title? Did it infuriate Rone, a natural competitor with a burning hatred for losing battles, that my masterpiece was three times as successful as his? I hope not.

“It was the best of vines, it was the worst of vines.” - Charles Dick(hidd)ens

If you take away small things like the photo existing and me being the one who’s in it, then it’s honestly not that embarrassing for me. If ESPN magazine’s Body Issue profiled backup wrestlers in the MAC conference, then that exact picture would probably be used. Heck, I would’ve submitted it to them myself.

Yes, I’ll admit that I was a fan of Vine at one time. I was passionate about my creations and posted on the app pretty frequently. But was I a serial viner like some people who were overly obsessed with the app? That’s hard to say. What makes someone a serial viner?

Clearing some things up (if you’re not extra curious then just exit out of this now)

You see a two-liter bottle of soda (12.9 inches in height but who’s counting) struggling to fully censor the introverted genitalia of a nude young man with extraordinary physique.

You don’t see a resilient 1st Generation iPad fighting to maintain an upright position while balancing at an 85 degree angle against a traumatized bedroom wall.

You see nearly dozens of likes on a popular niche video. And you probably deduced that, statistically, 1 of those 22 came from a female girl. Envious? I can’t blame you. It’s probably still looping in her mind, considering she got all six seconds of me and you just got a still image. You should ask her about that vine. Ha.

You don’t see me bragging about the girl(s) who used to love my videos.

You see an awe-struck fan in the comments wondering how in the effing hell I could’ve possibly pulled off such an incredible feat by myself.

You don’t see one of the big toes from my incredible feet battling adversity and meticulously pressing down on the nickel-sized record button on my iPad’s Vine app for several seconds straight.

You see the top row of a six pack sculpted by Russian Twists and All Section genes, harboring a pair of perfectly-sized, normally-hued adult male nipples.

You don’t see the other four humble packs, and a completely typical and not weird-looking human belly button.

You see a dresser drawer failing to fully enclose a robust collection of cargo shorts that rivaled a state-of-the-art lecture hall filled with elite computer engineering students.

You don’t see an original MacBook Pro blasting a legally torrented version of “Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites,” which ended up serving as the soundtrack to my film.

You see a rising internet star scoffing at the amount of likes I received when I was still an up-and-coming little boy.

You didn’t see the underlying jealousy of a man who was too insecure to pose fully nude and not quite captivating enough to obtain 22 likes.

You see A DOCTORED PICTURE MADE BY PHOTOSHOPPING TROLLS. I REPEAT. THIS DISTURBING IMAGE WAS MANIPULATED TO MAKE IT LOOK LIKE I HAVE A WEIRD STRETCH OF SKIN AND A BABY DICK.

Sometimes I wonder if any of the itsy bitsy 8 ounce cans and 20 ounce bottles in my fridge were jealous they didn’t make the cut. Maybe they should’ve found a different client?

“Don’t judge a full-length movie by one action shot”

If you just saw a screen cap of Alexandra Daddario’s voluptuous naked breasts grazing upon the weathered face of Woody Harrelson, you’d probably assume it was from a “FamilyStrokes—Creepy Stepdad Stretches Out His Daughter’s Tight Puss” porn video, when in reality it’s from the Emmy-winning HBO crime drama television series True Detective. Makes you think, huh? You got the pleasure of seeing one erotic image of my body, sure, but you missed the other 5.99 seconds of enthralling cinematography, rising actions, jump scares, and jaw-dropping climaxes. You missed the way my body was perfectly synchronized to the musical stylings of Skrillex so that I rose into frame from the supine position as soon as the bass dropped, right after the horrified child screamed “Oh my godddd!”