Page 120 of The Fake Out Flex

It's a beautiful morning, the sun is shining, and there's not a single cloud in the sky. I'm standing on the roof of the Wilshire Grand Center building in downtown LA with a group of four people of varying physical and mental abilities.

What am I trying to achieve?

I want to show viewers that a physical or intellectual disability doesn't have to be a barrier to living a full life. That people of all abilities can and should have the same access to opportunities as everyone else.

I would love it if there was a way to make that point without resorting to jeopardizing my life, but there isn't.

If I went down the more traditional, expected path of interviewing a few people or highlighting some local organizations that do great work in this area, who would watch that?

No one. It's unfortunate but true.

Evie's lovely but her segments are so boring, we usually leave the room to get ready for the day when she comes on.

That's a direct quote from a viewer in the last round of testing.

I need to do something, and it needs to be BIG.

And it doesn't get any bigger than me jumping off the tallest building in LA and potentially plummeting to my death, does it?

But my possible death is beside the point.

The point is, I can turn my numbers around with this story while raising some much-needed awareness.

And I'm doing it without having to rope Fraser into it.

I stand by my decision not to raise the interview idea with him. In all the time we've spent together, he hasn't once said or done anything to indicate he'd be open to it. He's as anti-press and pro-privacy as he's always been.

So, no. It's this. It has to be this.

Since there's no building tall enough to meet the height requirement in Comfort Bay, I've had to come down to LA. A bonus is that my segment will be syndicated throughout the state. Another good thing for numbers.

Who knows, I might even go viral again. So long, Breakup Sneeze Girl, may you come back…never.

"We've got five minutes," Margo's thick Australian accent booms in my head. "I only need one word from you to make the segment switch. Your call."

"Thanks, but I'm all set," I tell her.

There's no way I'm backing out of this now.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, walking up to Gemma.

She's in her early twenties. She has an intellectual disability that affects her cognitive functioning and adaptive behavior. I met her at the local day program she attends where she engages in vocational training that's been tailored to her interests and capabilities.

"Scared. But I'm excited. You?"

"Mainly just the first part."

"You'll do great."

"Thanks. You will, too."

"Don't look so petrified," Jared says, approaching me with a sympathetic smile. He's a thirty-six-year-old veteran who lost his left leg. He was involved with the UCLA research team who developed a prosthetic limb designed for extreme sports.

"I thought I was managing to hide it."

"Just keep breathing."

"I'll do that," I say. "This is your fourth jump, right?"

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