A handful of weeks later, they announced the finalists. Some guy from some TV show that I’ve never watched got up to the little podium and read out the nominees for my category, and he mispronounced the hell out of my name, but he said my name! I was officially nominated! Not just a short-lister, but a full-blown, actually could maybe win this shit, will maybe get to go to the show in Hollywood nominee. If I died that night, no matter how grimly, my obituary would still cite me as “People’s Choice Award Nominee Matt Bellassai.” As in “People’s Choice Award Nominee Matt Bellassai died today choking to death on an egg roll in his apartment. He was found peacefully at home, naked in bed, covered in duck sauce, watching homosexual pornography. He will be incinerated in a Krispy Kreme oven this Saturday and his ashes will be thrown at Beyoncé at her earliest possible convenience, as per his last will and testament.”

For the weeks after that, I made a not-so-subtle effort for votes. But of course, there was no way of telling how well I was doing. One of the other nominees, a teen heartthrob with vague abs and a full head of hair, was trending worldwide on Twitter. No matter how many times my mother assured me she was voting, my efforts seemed futile. But I still campaigned till the very last moment.

I didn’t hear anything for weeks, and I still had no idea what was going on. I didn’t even know if I’d get to go to the awards show. I didn’t know what dress I was wearing. I didn’t know if I could bring a guest, or if alcohol would be provided or if I had to bring my own from home. But finally, I got word that I’d be attending the show—all the nominees were indeed invited—and I had only a few weeks to get myself to Los Angeles, get an outfit, and figure out the alcohol situation.