I don't know how we ended up here; the drop is at least 300 ft. Unless someone used a ladder, but even then, that someone had to have had superhuman upper body strength to get us all up here. And then tie us tightly to the top of a row of ten neighboring trees.

There had to have been more than one person moving us. It must've taken them hours, maybe days. We probably didn't all arrive on the island on the same day. It wasn't possible. What did they give us to knock us out for so long?

The last thing I remember was, well, I don't know what the last thing I remember was. All I know is that the dude from the FBI handed me the panic button, and that's it. I never even got to see one of Emerson's tickets. I turn my head at the slumped, gagged heads of the men and women to my left and right.

I look down at my dangling timberland boots. I have my switchblade in my boots, you know, for safekeeping. I can get out of here by creating a grappling hook with the knife and rope I am tied up with and shimmy my way down this tree, bing bam boom, problem solved, and I am out of here.

The best part about this plan is that I know it works. When I'd sneak out of my grandparent's house in high school, the knife and rope were my two best friends. Or should I say, accomplices?

The problem here is getting the knife from the boot to my knees. My plan is set in motion once my knees have the blade, but I can't do anything until then. I cross my left shoe under my right pulling the heel down as much as possible so it'll pop right off. I can get my shoe back once I get down.

Here I am, squeezing every muscle in my body, forehead vein popping and all, pushing so hard that I let out a loud fart. A fart so alarming that it woke the nine other people around me up.

Or maybe my hysterical laughter ( I laughed so hard that I spit my gag out) woke them up. I can't help it; farts are funny. And that one sounded like someone letting go of a balloon filled with air.

Once, I farted laughing, sorry I couldn't help myself; I couldn't stop.

Can you imagine being knocked out, being taken to a private island in the middle of nowhere in the Indian Ocean, and then having your hands tied behind your back to the top of at least a 400 ft tree, and with a gag in your mouth?

But that's not the worst part; the worst part is that at the crack of dawn, you are woken up by an obnoxious cartoonish fart?

The first time you meet the other contestants, especially in reality competition shows, the last thing you want to do is make yourself stand out.

Well, that and make a bad first impression, and from the looks of their deeply disturbed faces, I was doing just that.

They looked at me like I wasn't one of them, like I wasn't knocked out, taken to this island, and woken up tied and gagged to a gigantic tree with no way down.

This is already not good for my game, and the game hasn't even started yet. At least I have a leg up on them, sorry last fart joke; I swear, I will not pass out from fear.

Three trees down the right, there's this pale athletic woman with red hair, she looks like that Dolly Parton song Jolene, and for the past five minutes, she's been in a loop of waking up, looking down, and passing out again. It's quite hilarious if I say so myself.

Two trees to my left is a handsome black Herculean guy who peed himself the second he opened his eyes. The guy beside him, a slightly shorter, more feminine male, has been shouting for help to some invisible person in the sky.

While everyone is freaking out like chickens with their heads cut off, the pretty blonde twig girl to my left glares at me. I hiss back at her. She faces forward like a scared little mouse.

She peers at me again, and I wink; maybe she's hitting on me.

Blue, I am here for Blue. I have to stay focused. And this girl looks like the definition of a hetero.

I rub my heel to the back of my boot, and through the hole in my socks, I can feel my blisters touch the warm metal of the switchblade.

The friction my leg makes against the needle-sharp twine loosens a few ropes. I have some wiggle room.

I bend my knee into my chest to see if I can get the knife with my mouth. How badass would that be?

It doesn't look badass, though. I am squirming around like a criminally insane person wearing a straight jacket, and since my competitors already think that of me, they are paying no attention to me.

Maybe having a bad first impression isn't a bad thing after all. I can hide in plain sight.

A single drop of liquid hits my face; I am too hyper-fixated on getting my foot to my mouth to check if it's rain or sweat.

Hell, I am too focused to remember there are other people around me having mental breakdowns. Then another drop hits my face, and then another.

It's downpouring. We are being drenched, and we are utterly exposed. I gotta get down fast.

I tuck my chin into my chest and drive my knee as far into my chest as it can go and then some.

My hamstring pulls and snaps, but I just keep pulling. My right boot is digging into my left boob, stabbing my rib cage. I can't hold this position for much longer.

"Well, hello there, islanders."

Who said that? Emerson? Was he here? No, he's too important to rough it in a storm in the jungle; he's probably watching us from his luxurious bungalow on the other side of the island or something.

My mouth makes contact, and my boot falls to the ground. Ten seconds I count. Woof. That's a long fall.

I cut enough rope to free one of my hands, grab the knife, stab the tree just right, tie the rope in a sailor's knot, and start descending the tree. If Emerson wants to challenge me, he will have to try harder than that.