My jaw dropped in horror and amusement as Brooke approached Davis, threw a bottle of water on him and shrieked, “Don’t you ever talk to me like that again.” I could do nothing but watch two people I had grown close with during the last few months verbally assault each other.

I sat on my couch, eating a bowl of grapes, shrugging, “C’est la vie.” They were in my TV – the newest cast of alcoholics and voyeurs on “The Real World.”

As I grabbed the remote to turn on “Anderson Cooper 360,” the show cut to a commercial: “Want to live with six diverse people? Become one of the seven strangers. Apply for the next season of ‘The Real World.'”

It was as if God was calling me. I had found my purpose in life. I was supposed to be on “The Real World.”

Often, in a bar, I’ve found myself approached by someone slurring, “You’re wild and crazy. You should be on ‘The Real World.'”

And while I correct them, saying I prefer the term “running wild and looking pretty,” I thank them for their kind words.

For years I had watched strangers drink, hookup and fight with one another on the show, occasionally teaching me a life lesson about anorexia, homophobia or racism.

For 22 minutes each week, I had friends who came into my home, shared their lives and left when the time was up. They were there when I needed them, airing in repeats 20 times a day.

I wanted to provide that to people. I wanted to be a positive influence on people’s lives, to make them happy with who they are.

And I’m convinced being on reality television is the most effective way to do that.

Forced to pay my library fines, I checked out a video camera and enlisted my roommate as art director. According to the commercial, I had five minutes to convince the studio executives at MTV I was what they needed for their show.

I ran through various gimmicks in my head, something to attract their attention, something that said, “This person is an ideal candidate for our show because he is entertaining, intelligent, unique and sexy.”

All of my ideas involved taking my clothes off.

After more brainstorming, I came up with an introduction that involved minimal nudity: “My name is Justin Templet. I’m 19 years old, and I’m from Downdaroad New Orleans.”

I told them about my passions, about my hates, my past, my hopes, my dreams and of course, Flavor Flav. I showed clippings of my Maroon columns and the money I had made that night in tips. I discussed how I still sleep with a stuffed Big Bird when I get anxiety, and I think lust is more practical.

I mailed the tape off a few days ago. I’m not worried whether or not I’ll make it.

But if I do, you should watch. I guarantee I’ll take my clothes off.