I would honestly rather lizard wrangling as the next challenge than what they actually made it. In all fairness, we've already had to do things that were legitimately damaging or threatening to our health, so playing a casual game of dodgeball is nothing in comparison, in fact, it's something you would expect in any normal summer camp or school gym.

But it brings back some god-awful memories to me. I'm glad that I managed to slip through high school without needing to take gym. I took PAL in grade 11. We went for walks, went to the pool like twice, and did asinine worksheets on the food pyramid. Physical education for the lazy man – I like it. As I was saying about bad memories – do I even need to outline that? I'm sixteen and five-sixths and I'm still only five and a half feet tall. I was always the only brown dude in my class, and I suck major dodgeballs at all sports, ever. Picked last, killed first, every shot.

I stare at Chef with eyebrows raised in absolute disinterest as he explains dodgeball's rules. Throughout, I hear his hard-assed Samuel L. Jackson voice morph into a chant of 'If you get the ball, hit Noah. Make sure Noah gets hurt. Rape Noah brutally every chance you get.' I try to maintain that look of perfect disinterest throughout, but I start to get a touch uncomfortable at the prospects. When I hear the words 'The first rule of dodgeball', I instinctively spit:

"Do not talk about dodgeball?"

It makes Owen chuckle, but I assume it's not in the 'LOL You made a Palahniuk reference!' way and rather a genuine 'you're so clever, I've never heard that before' way. I instantly realize I shouldn't try to be funny, because it will draw attention to me and make it much harder for me to avoid playing this stupid game, but if I was going to draw attention to myself, it may as well be in reference to ol' Chuck, an awesome author who gives his fellow gay guys a desperately needed dose of badassery.

When it comes time to play, I pull out a book and lounge on the bench. Seriously people, did you actually think I would even pretend to play? I figure they'd rather me just not get down on the floor and fail from the sidelines rather than get in the fray and somehow manage to tag myself out. I don't cut myself any slack about this. I might play clarinet, read comprehensively at 400 words a minute, and understand three and a half languages, but I've reached a degree of athletic retardation beyond the average nerd.

I would like to talk about how the game is going, but I'm mostly absorbed in my latest novel. It's in French this time, so background chatter seems indecipherable because I have my brain set on francophone mode. I think we're losing.

On occasion, I let out a sarcastic cheer of encouragement to my team. They're probably mad at me right now, but I internally promise them that I will be of good service when we reach the more intellectually based challenges. I can schmooze and I can think, what more do you need on a reality show? Gwen has been asleep on the bench for the majority of this engaging conquest anyway, and I don't see anyone flipping their shit at her, so I figure I'm fine.

Now that I think of it, this reminds me of junior high gym classes, when I'd do other stuff when I should have been playing sports. That's the whole reason I got into student council and class presidency and all that baloney – you always see those people walking around the school, cutting class, and screwing around talking about 'big (meaningless) decisions'. All I used to need to do in gym was raise my hand and say, 'Um, sir, I've got a thing.' And I could just leave like it was no one's business.

I peek up over my book briefly as my newfound tauntaun invading friend rides 'er solo. Lips pursed, I watch as he uses some kind of weird nerd magic to defy the laws of physics. Though better than phys-ed, phy-ics are not exactly my forte either so I don't bother to ponder how the heck he does what he does. Weird, weird kid.

Says the boy reading a book while he's supposed to be dodging balls.

Sometimes I catch the kid oogling me as I sit idly. Maybe he wants to smack me one because of my decided lack of effort, or maybe the little dweeb wants me to start spooning him again because he may or may not have attempted said sleepsnuggling on the next-to-comatose Gwen and struck out brutally. I trust neither will happen, and the thought floats away. Sorry, honey!

"Knock 'em out. Ra. Ra." I say, with not a hint of enthusiasm to be found.

Some other nerd on the opposing team does an epic job at defeating Owen. It's not often I will compliment somebody on their sports performance, but I'm genuinely impressed, if not a touch jealous that someone even geekier than me has the balance and form of a delicate but powerful onna-bugeisha. Then again he probably has four friend in life, two of them being his parents and one being a pet iguana or something, so I reassure myself I've got one over on him.

That dork is what kills us.

It's a bit shameful, really, that they'd allow someone with such a seeming lack of skills be the nail in their coffin. Were they even trying? He was performing fancy footwork and I never even saw him throw. I make an unimpressed face at Chris.

"What can I saw? Weak effort."

Heather looks at me disdainfully. She speaks but I mostly hear 'Mimimimi, blah blah, I'm a bitch but it's okay cause I'm sexy.' Huh. She has nice hair, so straight, damn Japanese people, they got all the good genetics on the Asian continent. I stare at one lock of her hair until she leaves me alone. I want to respect Heather for her amazing tactics are social manipulation, but I think it would be easier if she'd just keep her remarks pointed safely away from me.

That evening, the marshmallow ceremony begins. It's my first time here, because my team has never lost. I figure if there's, like, eleven of us, the odds of me getting cut are pretty slim. I do an analysis scan of my team mates. The blond girl is a major retard who didn't even know how to play the game and appears to be fornicating with some douche on the other team. Gwen slept the whole time, and then I can't really judge many of the others because I forget the names of the stout girl, the black girl, and the pompous tanned guy in the green shirt.

I sit on a stump and wait for my name to be called. This ceremony has the convenient side-effect of teaching me everyone's name. A miniscule shot of anger shoots through me when Trent's name is called, because he high-fives the pompous tanned guy, and I get this nagging feeling I hate that guy and I don't want him getting positive attention.

The names are called one by one.

The smug look on my face dissolves as my name remains unspoken. The frown quickly morphs into a look of disgust.

"Well, good luck!" I say pathetically. "Cause you…just voted off the only person with any brains on this team!"

LaShauna (Or something. I only know her name because of marshmallows) calls me a 'turkey' before I leave. Someone with an ass and chest as pumped up as hers shouldn't be calling me a turkey. I'm beyond pissed. They toss their 'mallows at me and everything.

"What-ever. I'm outta here."

I let my voice slip into that gayer register that I get into when I'm in a really bitchy mood, but I don't care because I'm pissed.

Maybe I shouldn't have been so damn focused on not embarrassing myself. I will probably wind up being the only person to make it through this show without revealing his pixelated privates to the world, but at what cost?

At the cost of 100 000$, that's the cost. All because I've had some bad experiences with dodgeballs starting way back in the good ol' kindergarten days of 1997.

I duck into my cabin for a moment to collect my stuff. Lo and behold, the only person in there is Cody. He catches me grumbling and looks at me. I imagine he's seeking clearer phrasing, so I humour him.

"I can't believe it."

He doesn't speak but he tilts his head quizzically.

"I could have been helpful, I hope they all know that. Not my fault I suck at sports. Didn't wanna make a fool of myself." I turn to face him as I cram my fourteenth and final book into my suitcase. "You know the feeling, don't you?"

His gaze becomes more curious. I backtrack slightly. "Uh, no offence, but you don't seem like you'd be the guy to get picked first for every kickball game."

"You're right." He replies simply.

"Stupid sports challenge. I said they aren't my forte. I had to get the boot for the one thing that is a severe flaw of mine."

His expression changes again, almost to a look of disgust. "Being bad at sports isn't your fatal flaw, Noah. Being a smug asshole is."

I'm surprised he'd say something that bold. I want to respond, but I don't want to complicate things. I just wanna go home, watch the show from my own TV, and root for Heather, despite the fact she almost surely played a part in my elimination. I grab my suitcase, look at the floor, glance at Cody briefly and leave.

I head to the dock. The cameras follow me, but I don't speak, so I figure they won't use this footage. I leave the island. I shouldn't feel a tiny bit relieved, but I do.

I arrive on another dock within half an hour. Before me, there is a lavish bungalow-style house with huge angular windows in front. I bet this is where Chris lives, where Chef makes him elegant dishes of sashimi using fish with actual names instead of hillbilly handfishing random swimmers out of the Wawanakwa lake, chopping their heads off, and calling it sushi. I bet the soy sauce isn't even salted motor oil.

I wonder how long I will need to wait until I can go home. I wonder if I'll get a plane, or if my parents need to come get me, which I frankly hope they don't because I would hear nothing but whining the whole way back, and that's if they don't bring any of the sibs. I raise an eyebrow and look around, slowly pacing to the other end of the dock.

"Hellooooo?"

A woman comes up to me with a clipboard.

"Hello Mr….Noah."

My face contorts.

"You've been eliminated from the Island"

"Don't remind me…"

"As such, you're going to spend the duration of the competition here, the Playa des Losers."

"Jesus. Christ."

"There's food, swimming pools, entertainment centre, and 24/7 medical care."

I don't even need to ask why that last thing is advertised. I think I already know.

"Since you're one of the first ones here, you can, uh, go explore, and when you choose a room, come find me to be assigned keys."

I inhale deeply through my nostrils and prepare for the worst. Upon entering the house, I see that it's honestly very lavish compared to the absolute hellhole everyone else is experiencing on the island. It doesn't seem booby-trapped or anything. I think this house legitimately has our pleasure and relaxation as its primary motive. This shocks me, but pleases me all the same.

I choose a room at the very end of the second-floor hallway. Nobody will bother me there. Not that anyone really can bother me here, because demographic of this house consists of two scary-looking people I've never spoken to.

They have a Nintendo Wii. Not bad.

Instead of hoping that someone worth spending time with gets eliminated soon, I relish in my solitude.

I would like to say that I gained some significant life experience during the next several days at the loser resort, but that isn't true. I essentially just went on my gay little walks, emphasis on 'little' because if I said I was going for a walk, I'd get too lazy to continue somewhere along the shoreline, sit down for a while, and walk back up to the resort to eat a brownie.

I played Super Smash Brothers Brawl on the Wii for hours to occupy my time. I think I finished single player mode with almost every character. I like to pretend that I'm good with Ike, but I only play as him because I think he has a sexy voice. I associate more with Falco because of his piss-poor attitude and big nose. And I've always laughed at Pit because of his lame outfit, but upon closer examination, he sort of reminds me of the gap-toothed wonder back on the island, which only makes me laugh even more.

This morning I woke up uncomfortable. All the Nintendo I've been playing had the odd after-effect of me dreaming that Trent was Ike from Brawl, with a sword and the whole deal. I don't remember who I was, probably something lame like Diddy Kong. Anyway, it would have turned pretty sexy if it weren't for the fact that Owen turned into Giga Bowser and my two sisters Madeleine and Sarah we, like, the Ice Climbers, and Owen ate them. At some point I think I was getting freaky with Ike, but then he turned out to be Marth. If I actually was Diddy Kong, the whole event was downright disturbing.

I woke up at 9:45, ate some granola, and just sat at the breakfast table for awhile.

That's where I am now. I'm pretty sure a new camper is getting eliminated today. The idea of this lost its excitement ages ago. The first person to come after me was Justin, and he's just plain shitty. Then it was Katie, at least I think it's Katie, I imagine Sadie is the fat one, and Katie isn't really a complete human being without Sadie. Followed by Tyler. God bless Tyler, he tries, but he sucks so badly. I believe if I tried as hard as him to be good at sports, I'd be about as terrible.

I could detail every other thing I do throughout this day, but the entire span of time seems to be touched with an undercurrent of nervousness. I am not sure if I can put a finger on it. I think it's the internal feeling that if someone doesn't show up with an open ear for me to bitch to in the next couple days, I might violently explode from pent-up complaining. Nothing eventful has happened except when Eva wanted to pick a fight with Tyler for 'cheating' at pool. I should have tried to explain to her that Tyler didn't intentionally get his hand stuck in the corner hole, it's just the kind of thing he's tragically prone to. But instead I read, which is what I always do when there's a lack of stimulating company.

Unfortunately, I only have a few novels left, and as if they were my last health-recovery potions in a particularly sprawling dungeon level, I need to keep them rationed for when they are necessary. There isn't much reading material around these places except for magazines. The worst part of this is the fact that I need to read Seventeen in order to entertain myself, because I feel less ashamed of that than if I were to indulge in People, Cosmo, or The Sun.

Seventeen was about twenty seconds away from convincing me I should start flat-ironing my hair when I realized that the time for our new housemate is arriving. I saunter to the front door. The clipboard lady is there first, and she props the door open with a hip. I watch from the stairs as she wheels in the latest loser. He's bandaged up pretty thoroughly, like a cartoon character who fell 20 stories.

I tackle the last few steps and stride through the hallway, beside the clipboard lady. I enquire nonchalantly.

"What happened here?"

"Cody was mauled by a bear."

My eyes widen. "Shouldn't he go to a legitimate doctor, or something?"

"He was already there. He should be fine. The excessive bandaging is just a precaution."

When she says 'precaution' I hear 'attention grabber'. They let a sixteen year old get attacked by a bear on TV, and then swaddled him for sympathy. How sadistic.

This show so isn't getting a second season.

I think I'm going towards a more vignetty style with this story, basically ignoring filler and stupid stuff and just skipping to things that actually matter. The chapters are also getting longer...the next one is literally triple this. Anywayz yeah. I want my story to get popular :') I bet I sound really lame in these author comments. Well just listen to the story then, don't listen to lame airheaded author, listen to smart snarky Noah.