I hate him.  I hate him more than seafood, spiders, and heights.  I hate him more than anything.
    It has been five days since we were left on this blasted island.  My previously chocolaty smooth hair has taken its toll and now looked like crusty mud.  He looked no better.  The productions team should realize that without the makeup artists, high quality cameras, and artificial lighting- this show was destined to be a disaster.  Instead they dropped me a mile off shore with a waterproof camera, a canteen with a water filter, reassurance that there would be edible plants on the island, and a strange guy I had never met.
    The footage from our camera was being streamed straight into the studio so that they could monitor us- just in case.  On day two I spent the day looking straight into the lens and loudly complaining.  My head hurt, I had a fever, my grandma was dying, I lost my canteen, my dog ate my homework.  No made-up excuse would get me off this island and out of the contract I had signed for this show.
    Day 3.  The sun was glared down on the island full of lush greenery and white sand.  A spot that would be perfect for a vacation if it contained 1) a bed, 2) some area to at least have some sort of proper hygiene, and 3) an all-you-can-eat buffet.  Oh- and 4) lacked the presence of a snarky, impulsive, rude, and arrogant teenage boy.
    On day one he had introduced himself as Benson Monroe.  From the very first hour on the island I learned that we would never get along.  I said right, he said left.  I said fork, he said spoon.
     I hated him.  I hated him more than seafood, spiders, and heights.  I hated him more than anything.
For some odd reason his awful personality was matched with cinematic features.  His chiseled face, his “wild-child” haircut (colored like milk-chocolate), his tall and muscled body.  It wasn’t fair.
     On day four we actually tried to work out a plan.  Why were we here?  What do the producers want us to accomplish?  Apparently Benson Monroe doesn’t like hearing other people’s opinions.  Apparently Benson Monroe doesn’t like to try and solve problems.  Apparently Benson Monroe REALLY REALLY likes to argue.  (Apparently Benson Monroe does not approve of fake crystal ball reading saying things like, “I’m seeing anger management courses in your future”).
     That brings me to today.  Day five.  We woke up this morning to a trunk on the beach full of notebooks and pencils.  The producers told us through a hastily scribbled note to write out what happened on the island.  Why? I don’t know.  But these silly sentences are paying for my college education, so deal with it.
     After having to deal with a silent treatment and continuous glares from Mr. Monroe after my hastily made “witty” comments yesterday, I decided that today I would turn over a new leaf.  It has been five days on this island and I have not yet figured out the purpose of this show.  Sure we’re giving the viewers some entertainment- arguing, scrounging around for food, tripping over random logs, and generally making fools of ourselves- but why?  Why were we here?
     As I was looking for Ben while roaming the thick greens- trees, plants, leaves bigger than my torso- I felt a weird sensation.  I felt myself falling.  A sound was coming out of my mouth that wasn’t altogether a scream, but not a complete whimper.  Maybe you could call it a wheam?  It wasn’t a long drop- but it wasn’t a pleasant one.  My foot was damaged- hopefully just a sprain.  As I tried to assess my problem and situation I looked up about 10 feet and found Benson Monroe leaning over the edge with a toothy grin.  I started shouting and that grin turned into chuckles and then full on belly-shaking laughter.
     I hated him.  I hated him more than seafood, spiders, and heights.  I hated him more than anything.
     Day 6.  Remember how I said I was going to turn over a new leaf yesterday?  Yeah.  That attitude didn’t last long. 
     I won’t ever know if this strange Benson boy took his time to dig a 10 foot hole just for me to fall in.  It seems illogical, but he was just a little too conveniently placed, and he laughed just a little too hard.  After he helped me out of my predicament yesterday, it was my turn for the silent treatment.  His mumbled “I’m sorry” at the campfire last night helped a little, but war was still coming- and he couldn’t stop it if he tried.
     So uh, that’s where my “new leaf” comes in.  That war I talked about? Yeah.  Day 6 turned into an all-out prank war.  I was impressed with the opposition.  His courage was mighty and he fought hard, but in the end his resistance was futile.  Mr. Benson Monroe ended Day 6 at the bottom of a 10 foot hole.
     Day 7: 6am.  Today I woke up to a sunrise that enveloped the whole island in a glow of pink.  How bad is it that I’m starting to think of this island as a sort-of home?  How bad is it that I found myself laughing and enjoying Ben’s presence yesterday?
     Day 7: 11:30am.  Ben and I talked a lot this morning.  Who knew we could actually do that without fighting?  He’s actually a pretty cool guy.  I have so many walls built up against his characteristics that I don’t think they will ever be broken down though.  He has offended me one too many times.
     Day 7: noon.  I can see a boat coming to pick us up.  How is it that a boat signifying my freedom from this island could also look like my future prison, making me feel trapped inside?  I look over at Benson.  A solemn expression fills his (devilishly handsome) face.
     Day 7: 2pm.  We’ve been sailing for 2 hours and the producers finally told us what this show is going to be.  “A show looking at the psychological characteristics of two different personality types and how they learn to function and work together in a rough environment.”  Seriously?  I’m IN the show and I won’t even watch it.  That sounds about as fun as watching my grandma build a jigsaw puzzle.
     Day 7: 3pm.  We are almost to shore and the producers want my notebook.  They told me to finish up my writing.  Looking over at Benson Monroe furiously scribbling out memories in his beaten-up notebook, I realize that this boat isn’t my new prison.  These memories aren’t going to disappear after jumping onto the dock.  These memories are mine to keep (and share with the limited few who watch psychological TV shows).  Maybe this boat signals new adventures and freedom after all.
     Now don’t get me wrong.  This isn’t the whole “Elizabeth Bennet/Mr. Darcy” approach.  I’m not madly in love with Benson Monroe.  But as I look over into his deep blue eyes and am greeted with a sly smirk, I realize that maybe I don’t hate him more than seafood, spiders, or heights.  Maybe I don’t hate him more than anything.
     Maybe I kind of like him.