I Got High, Applied to Host an iHeartRadio Podcast.

I Got High, Applied to Host an iHeartRadio Podcast, and Forgot the Whole Damn Thing

Apparently, High Me has career goals. She just doesn’t communicate them with the rest of the team.

There are certain text messages you expect to receive.

Your phone bill is due.

Your package has shipped.

Somebody you haven't spoken to since 2017 has decided 11:47 p.m. is the perfect time to send “Hey stranger.”

Normal shit.

What I did not expect was a text message that would essentially make me ask myself:

Wait a minute. When the fuck did I apply for THIS?

Let me back up.

A few weeks ago, I was sitting in my bed, smoking a blunt and minding my Black-ass business.

Apparently, somewhere between one inhale and whatever I was watching on television, I came across something called Top Host.

The opportunity caught my attention because the winner gets the chance to host a six-episode podcast produced by iHeartRadio, appear on On Air with Ryan Seacrest, and receive a cash prize.

Now, I am a writer.

I tell stories.

I have been writing since I was young, and over the years I've found my way back to something that has always been part of me. If you've been reading me here on Vocal, you already know that my life provides enough material to keep a keyboard employed full-time.

I've written about getting older.

I've written about my bladder apparently filing for independence.

I've written about relationships.

I've written about family.

I've written about life.

And lately?

I've been writing about dating at damn near 50.

Which, quite frankly, deserves its own federal investigation.

So apparently High Me saw a competition looking for a podcast host and thought:

Bitch, you should do that.

And you know what?

She was right.

So I applied.

Then I proceeded to forget the entire fucking thing ever happened.

Not “I Forgot to Check My Application.”

No.

That would imply that somewhere in my brain I remembered submitting one.

I mean I FORGOT I APPLIED.

The application apparently packed its bags, left my brain and never provided a forwarding address.

I didn't wonder whether I'd heard anything.

I didn't check the website.

I wasn't anxiously waiting for an email.

Nothing.

Life continued.

Until tonight.

And the timing could not have been more ridiculous.

I'm sitting in my bed watching Netflix's version of the Lizzie Borden story, getting progressively more irritated because I'm sitting there thinking:

What in the historical fan fiction is going on here?

I'm questioning everything.

I'm talking to my television.

I'm trying to reconcile what I'm watching with the Lizzie Borden case I remember.

At some point, I'm thinking they've changed so much shit that Aileen Wuornos might as well pull up too.

Just throw everybody in there.

Fuck it.

We're apparently making Murder Woman Avengers now.

And while I'm sitting there arguing with Netflix about a murder that happened more than a century ago...

My phone goes off.

I look at the text.

Top Host.

Contestant.

Profile.

Hold on.

MY WHAT?

Apparently, I'm a Contestant

That's when pieces of the memory started crawling back.

Ohhhhhhh.

Wait.

I DID do that.

I went to the website.

And there I was.

Dakota Blazz.

My picture.

My name.

My profile.

And underneath it:

> “I turn real-life chaos into hilarious, unfiltered stories and I'm not afraid to say the part everybody else was thinking.”

Well, damn.

Apparently High Me wasn't playing around.

She filled out the application, handled business and then left Sober Me absolutely no meeting minutes.

No follow-up email.

No calendar reminder.

No sticky note.

Nothing.

Excellent initiative. Terrible interdepartmental communication.

But once I stopped laughing, something else happened.

I started thinking about what this could actually mean.

Six Episodes.

That's the part that keeps sticking with me.

A six-episode podcast.

A microphone.

A professional production team.

And storytelling.

My storytelling.

And suddenly my mind went straight to something many of you have already been reading right here:

Dating at Damn Near 50.

Because BABY...

If you've read even one of those stories, you already know.

I've reached an age where dating is no longer simply dating.

It's investigative journalism.

Every new man is a developing story.

Every conversation needs fact-checking.

Every “I'm single” apparently requires supporting documentation.

Every “I'm looking for something serious” needs to be independently verified by three sources.

And somewhere in America, there is always a wife nobody mentioned.

I've written these stories because they're funny.

Sometimes they're ridiculous.

Sometimes they're frustrating.

Sometimes I finish writing one and stare at my computer thinking:

There is absolutely no fucking way this is my real life.

But underneath all the foolishness is something I've realized as I've gotten older:

There are a lot of women living versions of these same stories.

Women starting over.

Women dating again after years away from it.

Women raising grown children while trying to remember that they're still women themselves.

Women building businesses.

Women changing careers.

Women dealing with aging bodies that apparently wake up every morning and spin a wheel to determine which body part is going to act stupid today.

Women approaching 50 and realizing that life didn't end at 30.

Or 40.

And it damn sure isn't ending at 50.

We're still dating.

Still laughing.

Still creating.

Still having sex—or deliberately NOT having sex.

Still starting businesses.

Still changing our minds.

Still figuring shit out.

Still becoming whoever the hell we're going to be next.

That's a conversation I'd love to have behind a microphone.

So, Yeah. I Want This.

I'm laughing about how I got here because the story is objectively hilarious.

I got high.

Found an opportunity.

Applied.

Forgot.

Got a text weeks later.

And discovered that Past Dakota had apparently entered Present Dakota into a whole-ass podcast competition.

That's funny.

But the opportunity itself?

I'm taking that seriously.

Voting doesn't begin until October 5, so this isn't my “PLEASE GO VOTE RIGHT NOW!” article.

There isn't anything for you to vote on yet.

I'm writing this because this entire situation feels exactly like the kind of ridiculous story I would normally come here and tell you anyway.

Except this time, we don't know the ending yet.

Maybe I make it through one round.

Maybe I make it through several.

Maybe this turns into nothing more than a hilarious story about that one time I got high and entered a podcast competition.

Or maybe something much bigger happens.

I genuinely don't know.

But I know this:

If somebody is willing to hand me a microphone and give me six episodes to tell stories, ask uncomfortable questions, laugh about getting older, talk about relationships and discuss the absolute circus that is dating at damn near 50...

I know exactly what I could do with it.

And apparently, a few weeks ago, sitting on my bed with a blunt in my hand, some version of me knew that too.

So shout-out to High Dakota.

She saw an opportunity.

She took the shot.

Then she disappeared without briefing the rest of management.

But don't worry.

I got it from here.

Voting begins October 5.

And for the first time since receiving that text, I can officially say:

Yeah. I really want to see where this goes.

— Dakota Blazz

https://tophost.org/2026/dakota-blazz