friend crushes

I am not going to have crushes on boys anymore because it's really painful, awkward and embarrassing, for my boyfriend, who I fabricated to make my crushes jealous. Crushes on boys just take up an unwarranted amount of my energy that should be focused on comedy and writing. So I'm over it. I have, however, recently developed this ability to have weird platonic friend crushes on girls I want to be friends with. Is that normal? Like I'll meet a really cool girl and be like "holy crap she's so fricking awesome, how many days do I have to wait before I call her? I don't want to seem needy. How many days do I have to wait before I give her this best friends forever heart necklace that is split in two so we can each have half?"

Sidenote, those necklaces were super popular in 5th grade so I got one and tried to give it to a girl and she did not want to be one half of a best friendship with me. My mom was like, just wear both necklaces, and that is how sadness starts.

Recently I was in New York and there's this girl who I had previously thought was cool. I got to spend an extra half hour talking to her and she was so amazingly kind and genuine and friendly and down to earth and awesome that I was overwhelmed with a platonic friend crush. How do you ask someone to be your friend? In grade school it's so easy. "Hey you're a kid, let's be friends!" When you're in high school it's like "I hate everything, do you hate everything? Hooray let's hate everything together!" When you're in college it's like "I'm drunk... Hi." How do you make friends as an adult? How do you ask someone to hang out as a friend? Maybe it's still the possible to form close personal bonds and I'm just too much of a scaredy cat pussey to do that. I don't know how to make friends anymore. I come across as desperate, needy, eager, retarded, emotionally unstable, and/or bitchy. Like yeah, I'm introverted, and that's okay. But do I need to be the kid who laughs loudly about holocaust jokes when everyone else is quiet? Why can't I just be shy and quiet, instead of the kid who mutters rapidly about suicide in a squeaky annoying voice? Who the heck wants to be friends with that?

Friend crushes are even harder than romantic crushes because you can't just start making out with someone to make them like you platonically. I've done that on dates before. "Well I guess we ran out of shit to talk about, let's do some liplocking." I guess there's a tip for daters out there, if you want to make out, fake poor conversational chemistry.

In Boston I had a slightly similar situation watching a comic. I was like "holy shit she's so hilarious and cool! I want to be her best friend!" After the show of course I overcomplimented her, shuffled awkwardly, put my foot in my mouth, acted retarded, and then stumbled away. At a comedy conference a writer said the best way to network is to just be friendly and nice and the person everyone likes at the party. That would totally get in the way of my saying stupid things and then running away to be alone and eat ice cream and hate myself in private. I'm introverted. I like people, but they exhaust the hell out of me. And I know there are people who would probably be willing to watch a movie or hang out and talk with me, but I do stand up every night and when I get a chance to be alone I revel in my alone time. And when I do get to get coffee with a girl, I feel like I'm interviewing her. I'm really awkward at smalltalk and the paperwork is ridiculous. Friend dates can be as uncomfortable as romantic dates. Just because you memorize someone's facebook profile doesn't mean you have any sort of preexisting report.

Making a new friend is a lot like going to a super amazing fun party. I hide in the bathroom throwing up to stave off crippling panic attacks.

You know you're lonely when you write friend pick up lines. Here's some I wrote! How do you like your eggs in the morning? I was just hoping we had something in common because I'm desperate to relate to someone. Did it hurt when you fell from the nondenominational afterlife nirvana-esque scenario? Please hang out with me.

trying to study

"Hey, Brian how's it going?" Dean cheerfully said, flopping down on the common room couch. Brian sighed quietly as Dean and his three loud friends invaded what had a few minutes ago been a quiet relaxing area. The four boys popped open small cans of Raineer and turned on the television.
"Hi Dean," Brian said. "Hi.... guys." Sitting at the table behind piles of books and papers he tried to crawl back into the mindstate of concentration but it was like he had lost the key. His notes seemed scattered and he lost his place in the book.
“Dude so then Jennifer was like ‘what’s a keg stand’ and you know she was like totally wearing a skirt or some shit,” Dean said.
Brian put his head in his hands in exasperation.
“No way, a skirt?” Carl, one of his meathead friends echoed.
“Bro, I don’t know; I’m not a homo,” Dean said.
“Hey can you guys please try to keep it down?” Brian said.
“What’s up, Brian? Why you gotta be pissy? You on your period or something?” Dean asked.
“No. What? No, I’m sorry. I just have a test tomorrow so I’m trying to study.”
“Why you got these crazy mood swings? Did the shoe store sell out of shoes?” Dean said.
“Nice one!” Two of the frat brothers high fived each other.
“Did you take forever to get ready and then by the time you were ready the mall wasn’t open anymore?” Dean asked.
“Sorry I brought it up. Never mind. I didn't think it would have been that much to ask to just whisper in the common room or go somewhere else."
Dean laughed and said, "Yeah I'll whisper, into your pussey!"
"Just ignore me,” Brian said.
“Maybe he was on his way to the mall but his sense of direction was so bad he couldn’t find it,” Dean said.
“Ohhh shit, can’t do any shopping without a mall,” Carl said.
“Fine. I’ll go to the library,” Brian said. He stood up and began to gather his papers and notes and put them in his bag. He put his sweatshirt on.
“Sorry, Brian,” Dean said. “I didn’t know it was your time of the month.”
“Shut up, idiot,” Brian said.

Just then Brian felt something warm between his legs. He stood there glaring at his classmates with his books and bag in hand. Hot dampness began pooling on his inner thighs and Brian thought he was sweating from frustration. But the warmth and plethora of the swampy liquid surprised him. Less than a millisecond later a river of blood rushed down his thigh out the hole of his basketball shorts. Little droplets of blood splashed and splattered onto the floor between his feet, angrily spraying at first in a Jackson Pollack design and then pooling together in a smooth small pool of blood. His friends gaped at him in silent horror.

Embarrassed, Brian tugged on his now wet basketball shorts. The screams of his parents echoed silently in his head and he stared frozen at the mess on the floor. Demons snuck into his thought, clutching around any sort of positivity and squeezing and squelching any smile in his heart. Sharp pains cut through his chest. A dark shadow came over his vision, creeping into his thoughts and pushing him farther from the room, from his schoolwork, from his life. Tiny globs of blood clung to his sticky leg hair and shellacked his goosebumpy skin. The sludgy pond of blood continued to grow and ripple, edging out to almost touch his sneakers. Brian tried to move out of the way. It bulged and oozed more like a gel than a liquid. Its consistency held together like a solid but a stream of fresh liquid blood poured into it like red sludgy pudding or ghostbusters slime.

“What… the… fuck…” Dean gasped.

Brian’s face burned bright red, and as he blushed, the flood of period blood came more freely. He ducked his head and turned away from his acquaintances. He held his books to his chest, scrunched his shoulders into himself. As the blood rushed down his leg, equally warm and embarrassing tears began to pour from his eyes. He slowly walked out of the common room wordlessly, a trail of blood droplets falling to the ground beneath him in a bloody Hansel and Gretal breadcrumb river oozing after him as he left.

Funeral

Grey clouds loomed over the proceedings as Steve's casket was wheeled out onto the mound. Rain drizzled down onto the green grass and the family sobbed and dripped goobers into their black sleeves.

"Oh shit," Tim said, looking down into the fishbowl at the tiny funeral.
"What's up?" Bobby asked, without looking up from his computer monitor whilst playing ski-free.
"One of them died."
"They do that."
"It was Steve," Tim said, one hand resting on the fish bowl.
"That means nothing to me."
"The one with the grey stringy hair? Angie loved him. He farted in his chair and then contentedly stayed sitting there. He said things like 'Those butt-poop yankees just gotta respect our freedom. Merica.' He was awesome."
Bobby laughed and sucked on some of the beer.
"Dude, we're the worst pet sitters," Tim said, distraught. "Angie is going to be heartbroken."
"It's just a human. Chill. We'll go to the pet store later and pick up a new one."
"Angie will know the difference."
"Nah they all look the same.
"And you just want to dump it in the fish bowl with all the other humans? Don't you think they'll know the difference?"
"Buddy, you're super boring when you're uptight. Do you want to bang Angie or something?"
"Why would you say that?" Tim said. "Angie is a super classy celestial life form. And, yes, duh. Why else would we be watching her humans when she's out of town?"
"Niiiiice," Bobby said. "When are you going to do it?"
"It?"
"Commence the intercourse. When she gets back?"
"She doesn't know I like her yet," Tim said. "I'm super nervous to talk to her about it."
"Dude, you're the most pussey of all of the dieties," Bobby said.
"Let's go to the pet store."

Two hours later they returned to their apartment. Tim had a plastic ziplock bag in his hand with tiny holes so the human, no bigger than the size of his palm, could breathe. Tim unzipped the baggee and dumped the human unceremoniously into the fish bowl. Tim and Bobby lowered themselves so they were eye level with the fishbowl. The tiny man plopped to the ground of the tank. Oblivious to the two giant powerful beings peering in at him, the human picked himself up, dusted off his suit, and began walking throughout the town. In what was only an hour of Tim and Bobby's time, the human had found a job at a tools and supplies factory (a factory that manufactures things needed to make more things) and entered into a warm, pleasant, and passionless relationship. Aimlessly, he went about his life and embarked on tasks as empty and meaningless as possible. He bought the CDs he was supposed to buy and watched the tv that was supposed to be hip. He met people and developed relationships but never got to know anyone including himself. He learned to surf and bought the right hoodies and cried himself to sleep at night.

Bobby flicked the side of the fish bowl with his thumb. "How loud do you think that is to them?"

A group of tiny humans looked up and scratched their heads, searching the skies for lightning that would never come.

"Don't be a jerk," Tim said.
"Seems like he's a good one," Bobby said. "He's fitting in nicely."
"Yeah," Tim said.
"Should we call him Steve number 2?"
"That is a nice touch."
"They certainly do mess up the bowl a lot with all their waste. How often do you need to clean it out?"
"Every 5,000 years their time, About every couple months our time," Tim said.
"Weird, it seems like they're crapping up the fish bowl a lot. I would have guessed you do it more often."
"They seem to like their own waste."
"So are you going to call Angie?"
"I guess. I don't know. It doesn't matter anyway."
"Right," Bobby said.

Bobby ordered a pizza while Tim sat by the fish bowl, watching tv, but not paying attention. They spent the evening quiet and distant from each other and only commenting on random things on tv every hour or so. Inside the fishbowl Steve's widow hadn't stopped crying yet.

Pet Sitting

Bonnie's parents dropped her off at the Stephenson's home and waited outside in the truck. She waved them away anxiously, terrified and embarrassed that Mr. Stephenson would see her perky suburban blonde parents sitting in their Ford, eating McDonalds. Bonnie jumped up and down, waving desperately for them to leave, yelling "You're embarrassing me!" at the top of her lungs while strangers peered out their curtains to see what the commotion was. "Stop being so overprotective!" Mr. Stephenson nodded from his window with a raspy chuckle. Bonnie's parents drove off and left her there without waving goodbye.

Relieved, she walked up the grey, peeling steps to Mr. Stephenson's house and rang the doorbell. There was a broken down truck in the driveway. After what felt like an hour he came to the door in a wife beater tank top, his pale hairy belly hanging out the bottom. He had prematurely grey long hair and smelled like cigarette smoke. Bonnie smiled politely and held out her hand to shake his.

Mr. Stephenson shrugged, grunted and ushered her inside. In the house was a disgusting smell, bits of old food and dirty laundry lay all over. Dog poop piled up in the corner. Bonnie stood there for a moment, afraid to look anywhere and settling on her own feet. She waited for Mr. Stephenson to say something and he waited for her to say something. Eventually he cleared his throat.

"So this is where I keep the food and water tins," he grunted. He proceeded to show Bonnie the basic proceedings to care for his dog while he was out of town. Bonnie shifted her weight anxiously from foot to foot.

A woman in a long off white nightdress made out of sweatshirt fabric came down the stairs. Her grey hair hung down her back in a greasy tangle. She stopped when she saw Bonnie.

"Who the hell is that?" the woman inquired to Mr. Stephenson.
"I don't know," he answered with a shrug.
"What?" Bonnie chirped. "Hi, I'm Bonnie." She stuck out her hand at the woman. "I'm pet sitting next week when Mr. Stephenson is out of town and he just wanted to show me the house.
The woman neglected to shake her hand and barked at Stephenson, "You're going out of town!?"
"WE are going out of town," he answered.
"Are you Mr. Stephenson's mom?" Bonnie asked.
"Yes," she answered.
"No," he said simultaneously. "This is my girlfriend Charlotte,"
"I'm his... okay, whatever," she said.

Mr. Stephenson continued to show Bonnie around the house, now seemingly pointing out things that had nothing to do with the dog. "This is the ironing board; this is the beer bottle Charlotte pees in when I'm tying up the bathroom..." Bonnie wondered if he had forgotten why she was there.

"May I meet the dog?" she asked.
"What?" Mr. Stephenson said.
"The dog... I'd like to meet him before...."
"What dog?"
"What the hell is going on?" Charlotte yelled.
"I'm supposed to dog sit, right?" Bonnie asked.
"I thought you were going to bring your own dog."
"No...."
"Is this some kind of sick joke?" Charlotte asked. "My dog died several years ago. Is this the kind of bullshit manners your parents teach you? Get the fuck out of here."

Bonnie left in a nervous flutter, cheeks burning and tears behind her eyes. She walked home and as she did so she saw a truck race past her towards her house. She thought she saw Mr. Stephenson driving it. When she got home someone had dumped piles of dog food out on her front lawn. Her parents stood on the front porch with their arms crossed, scowling and waiting.

New outfit

I sat at the lunch table trying to eat my tuna fish sandwich. I clumsily gripped the soft wheat bread between my fingers, pinching too hard and leaving mushy prints. I lifted the sandwich and jammed it messily into my mouth. I chewed for a few moments and swallowed uncomfortably. My friends sat around me chatting and laughing. My eyes swelled in my sockets as I observed, watering as I moistened and clogged the bread into my epiglotas.

Their conversation was like a ping pong match because their words bounced across the table and there wasn't any reason for anyone to be sweating. I felt guilty perspiring all over my new outfit. I subtly shifted my arms a little, hoping that creating an airflow would lessen the potential for B.O.

I laughed too loudly at things that weren't meant to be funny. My friends looked at me and rolled their eyes. One of them muttered, "Is that your real laugh?" Do you really think that it's fake? Why would I choose this laugh voluntarily? I grappled at their conversation, trying to hang afloat, like a kitten being shoved off a boat in the middle of a sea of toilet water. They talked about movies I hadn't seen and comic books I hadn't read. I yelped and muttered things semi-on topic but still strikingly obtuse, thought bubbles in a different color creeping out from my cloudy alien brain.

I felt like a puppy begging for attention and getting routinely pushed face first under the table, out of the way. I said several stupid remarks about the table, lunch, my friend's hair. It felt like they were all speaking French and I only knew four French words. I kept listening to their conversation, trying to keep up and blurting out whenever I heard something familiar. Burning with embarrassment I shoved food into my face just to stop myself from talking.

We thought things would have been different after Abby was gone. That they would start noticing me and treating me like her. She had been the bell of the ball, if by ball I mean every group of people in social situations you could possibly imagine that would make you anxious and feel like a bloated freaky cow. She was the bell of the balls of society and society had giant disgusting throbbing blue balls for pretty outgoing girls like her. After she left, I assumed I would get her treatment. I don't think they even noticed. They were treating me the same way, as a weird annoyance.

Now Jennifer was the leader. She was the new Abby. Jennifer was beautiful, smart, adorable, friendly, loud, outgoing, charming, charismatic, and wonderful. Why hadn't I seen it before? She was more the lovable leader than Abby ever was. I watched her as she spoke, pretty perfect lips formed clear clever sentences. When she said something people quieted down, turned to her, and listened. Watching them listening to her was like sex, because it happens to me so rarely when it does I usually mess up.

Walking home I thought obsessively about Jennifer, re-imagining what it would be like to be her. I thoughtfully lusted after the way she talked and the way people listened in a friendly manner. I enviously mused over how she rarely said something stupid, accidentally mean, or uncomfortable.

Each step felt clumsy, like it wasn't mine anymore. My feet wobbled like jello on the harsh sidewalk, my bones slipping inside my mushy feet. A sick swelling rose in my entire body. I wanted to scream at the ugly flowers on my neighbors lawn, "why not me? why never me!" I fought the urge to throw up and my face slid slightly out of place on my anxious head.

I let myself inside and walked up into my room. In front of the full length mirror I looked into Abby's disheveled uncomfortable face. Her silent lips hung sad and useless on my jaw. I reached for the zipper and unzipped Abby's skin suit. It fell in a lumpy pile to the ground. I stepped out of it, naked. I avoided eye contact with my own body in the mirror. The cold breeze sweetly nestled against my flubby, sweaty stomach. My hair, drenched in the inner moistness of Abby's skin, was pulled into a clammy ponytail.

I kicked Abby's skin suit to the side of my room. I didn't want to be that girl anymore. It was futile. I opened the window wider to wash out the scent of her decaying epidermis. Her blood dribbled on the hardwood floor in tiny freckles. I was slightly embarrassed at how disgusting I was. Anyone who would come in would think I was a sick freak, for leaving her skin like that on the floor instead of taking it down to the basement with the rest of her. But I was too tired and lazy to care.

I climbed into my soft comfortable flannel pajamas. I sighed when I got into bed, reveling in the familiar. I watched cars dance by my home outside my window, twinkling lights whispering me to sleep like so many ghosts of murdered fireflies. My head swam with dreams of tomorrow and I lazily eyed my knife on the counter. I would be loved soon enough. As I shut my eyes and peacefully sang a little lullaby to myself about cats with peacock feathers as hair. I wondered if it would be a problem that Jennifer was much thinner than I. Then I remembered a tool I head for stretching fabric out. I smiled and sank away from everything into sleep.

The Cave

Alice wiped the sweat off her forehead, forgetting that her hand was covered in mud. She cringed and the follicles of earth and water and animal defecation seeped into her open glistening pores. Her auburn ponytail beat against her back while she hiked across the cliff side. The strong ocean breeze pulled at her shorts and shaggy leg hair. She stepped carefully amongst the rocks to keep her balance in the wind. Salt stung her watery eyes and she panted heavily as she struggled beneath her her backpack.

The ocean heaved and thrashed amongst itself. It roared a loud one loud scream layered over another. Thoughts and fears cascading and being pushed under by the throbbing pressure of the water. Sprays hissed and leaped up from the rocks, sending jets a few feet into the air.

Alice pulled her small map book out of her backpocket. She stretched an aching calf muscle while she flipped through the pages of hiking trails. She couldn't identify the path that she was on in her book and her phone had died hours ago. But she wasn't anxious that she was lost, because wherever she was happened to be an okay place to be.

She sat down on the edge of the cliff and looked out into the ocean. A lot of hikers hiked with headphones in but Alice never did. The rattle inside her head was noisy enough and it was nice to finally be away from other people long enough for the internal commotion to quiet itself down. The fresh air smelled like freedom and it smoothed her tensed emotions. For the first time in months she was able to relax. She undressed her aura, peeling off layers of anxiety and discomfort like too many scarves and sweaters in June. She tossed the unwanted anxieties down onto the cliff side. Rolling her tight shoulders, she sighed in relief at how comfortable and unburdened she felt.

Below her jutting out from the cliffside she could see the mouth of a cave sinking into the rocks, deep and hidden from the noisey violent waves. Alice climbed down and crawled into the cave. Once inside the mouth of the cave she could stand up to her full height. Protected by the wind and the sun, she explored the sweet coolness of the shadows. Out the mouth of the cave she could see miles and miles of ocean and sky, melding together in an indistinct blob of everything and nothingness. Clouds of time and feelings kissed each other against the horizon and Alice turned her back on it, seeing it was, only empty beauty.

Alice sat down in the quiet cave and pulled a snack from her backpack. A chirping echoed deep in the cave and tiny claws scampered out from the darkness. A small frog like monster creature nimbly ran towards her. It's scaly tail smacked against the rock floor. It's horns bounced as it ran. Large glowing yellow eyes illuminated the shadows only proving there was nothing to see.

Without flinching, Alice set some of her trail mix on the ground for the monster to eat. Watching her cautiously, it crouched and with tiny claw like hands began to feed itself. It chewed thoughtfully for a moment and then spoke.

"What are you doing here?" The monster said. He had an elegant, polite, but raspy voice.
"Enjoying it."
"It? There's nothing here."
"I'm here," Alice said.
"Oh, right." He paused eating more trail mix. "Are you lonely?"
"That doesn't really mean anything. But maybe, I guess."

The monster didn't say anything. He seemed satisfied with that response and scampered away, kipping a pile of loose stones as he did so. Alice stood up and went to the mouth of the cave, looking out at the view. She thought of everyone and everything, jumbled in too many noises and colors swirling around in her brain, reaching for her with an intense multitude of spider arms. She squinted out against the horizon.

"I wonder if I can see my house from here," she whispered, barely audible against the roar of the ocean.

Alice carefully picked up the loose stones and artfully placed them one on top of the other, constructing an uneven wall. The darkness grew darker and cooler and quieter, and Alice felt safer and calmer as she sealed up the mouth of the cave.

Shyness, meeting new people, making friends

The first day of kindergarten I met more children then I had ever seen in my life. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that the school taught more than two students. Coming from a house where I was routinely chastised for “acting like a clown” or laughing too loudly, I was overwhelmed by the incessant jubilant chatter of rambunctious kids.

The only person I had connected with up until then had been my little brother and I was excited and terrified to meet new people. During recess I hovered anxiously, watching children play. It was at five years old that I developed the impression that interaction with other humans was a spectator sport. They could have sold me popcorn, a soda, and a program for life so that I could have been more comfortable watching from the sidelines of relationships.

Inexplicably, I never allowed myself to just be content on the outskirts. It is a painful juxtaposition: desiring to connect with others and absolve my loneliness mixed simultaneously with an overwhelming fear and discomfort of being around other people. I am so jealous of people with friendships and close relationships and I desperately wish I could create that kind of closeness with someone. But at the same time, I revel in being alone and I feel exhausted being around people too long. I want to make friends but I hate meeting people. It’s probably a good thing I can’t make friends come to think of it, because what would I do with them if I could? Hey, wanna come over and sit quietly on our computers? Because that’s the only thing I like doing. Yay I have a relationship! Now can we enjoy some alone time? Because I'm glad we're friends but I can't stand being around people.

This girl Kasia was one of the prettiest most outgoing children. I admired the way she talked to the other kids and laughed (not annoyingly and squawking like me) and I picked her as my potential future friend. I followed her around on the recess playground, hiding behind various gym equipment. I stalked her like a cat stalking it's prey, if the cat was socially retarded and its prey thought it was an idiot. When she turned around I stood completely still and shut my eyes so she wouldn’t see me, because that's how I thought invisibility worked.

I triumphantly cornered her in a playhouse and followed her inside muttering manically and gleefully: “good she went into the playhouse alone! now I've got her!” Which is something a child molester would say, and also incorrect. Because a playground is not like a pregnancy, you can't trap someone into being in a relationship.

“What are you doing?” Kasia said.

I hadn't planned this far in advance. I stood there, frozen in the playhouse, grinning at her hysterically.

“What do you want?” the little girl sounded scared now.

I began giggling softly and squeakily and shaking in anxiety. I trembled violently and realized that socially anxiety is the narcissistic hipster boy of emotions because whenever it's inside me I want to throw up. I heaved a little and Kasia ran out of the playhouse.

Due to that moment and enduring a plethora of criticism on my personality traits, throughout my life I struggled with trying to make friends. I was (am) especially intimidated by outgoing, assertive, aggressive girls who represent everything I wanted to be that remained unobtainable and beautiful. There have been a few girls in my life who I idolized and I wanted to be them and simultaneously I wanted them to love me and acknowledge my existence. I drowned in the shadows, painfully wishing I could have the spotlight yet hating it whenever I got it.

I have spent countless dollars on books with titles like "Learn how to talk to people!" And the first sentence is never "stop hiding in the library and go out and talk to real people." One time I was on a bus and this guy came and set next to me and was like "Hey, how are you," and I said "I'm sorry I'm reading, it's really important. I need to study this; I'm sorry I can't be distracted." And he said "What are you reading?" And I answered, "How to overcome shyness and talk to strangers."

I resent and admire girls who can easily slip into the center of attention and be like "look at me, look at me!" and direct the conversation. When I see girls flirt with boys to get attention anger screams inside my ears. Often times they're flirting with them, but they'll never even put out. It's much healthier to stay silent around men and secretly fuck them and then feel guilty after. I watched in vehement anger from the shadows while girls confidently leaped into conversations, making groups of people laugh. People with assertive/aggressive energy intimidate me and make me very anxious and uncomfortable.

According to the Shy and free website, "Shyness is the emphasis of one part of us resulting in the limitation of our personal freedom and expression." I guess that describes it pretty well. I feel very limited/trapped/inhibited by my shyness.

It was really hard for me to deal with rejection and failed attempts at friend making. But while researching this bit I looked up Kasia on facebook and I think it's okay that we never became friends because now Kasia is now married, orange-tan, and lives in Pullayup and puts posts on facebook about the Twilight movies. So I don't think I missed out on much.

As crippling and painful as shyness is, I need to learn to deal with it and accept myself for who I am. I'll never be the outgoing girl who is the center of attention, but do I want to be that? Probably not. Sometimes I'm jealous of how quickly assertive people make friends... Do I want to be a loud outgoing brassy broad? I have no idea. But I do know this: my favorite comedians: Maria Bamford, Mary Mack and Aparna Nancherla have quiet, introspective, observer styles of comedy. People who display aggressiveness on stage I am turned off by. My favorite style of comedy is thoughtful, sweet, quirky... I like performers that sound kind and gentle on stage. I am a quiet, peculiar, wallflower, weird, observer person/writer/comedian and I think that is okay that I am that way!

Testing...

Albert leaned over his notebook so Jennifer couldn’t see that it was blank. He pushed his glasses up his nose and wiped the sweat off his eyes. Behind the one way mirror the couple argued vehemently. Jennifer, Albert’s junior lab partner, jotted down a note in her notebook, her graceful young hands nimbly dancing over the page, getting covered in dark splotchy ink. Black spots squirting over her smooth hands and caking them in a luscious batter. Albert bit his bottom lip thoughtfully and turned back to the couple in the glass box.

“Well I’m sorry if just for one single second I don’t want to hear about some fucking artistic foreign film!” screamed the boyfriend.

“Did you even notice that I lightened my hair?” cried the woman.

"Fucking hell, I can't do anything, anything anything without you jumping down my fucking throat!"

“I did it because you said that blonde woman was so pretty.”

“She was hot because she was thin, not because of her stupid hair, idiot!”

“You never notice me anymore,” she sobbed, snot dripping over her lips and down the crevice of her blouse.

“Of course I don’t notice you anymore! I’m with you about 10 fricking hours a day when I’m awake. There’s nothing to notice about you anymore.”

“Have they been in there long enough?” Jennifer asked.

Albert looked at his watch and mumbled, “Yeah. We should start the next test.”

“Send in test subject C,” Jennifer said clearly into the microphone. They watched as a gentleman in a classy sport coat ushered the fighting couple out of the room.

“So what made you want to study the way love works?” Jennifer asked.

“It just seemed like a fascinating social science. No one’s really dealt with it. Sure it can be explained from an evolutionary level, a societial pressures level, but when you look at this…” he gestured at the retreating backs of the couple. “There’s really no explanation for that kind of raw desperate pain and cruelty in people.”

“What’s the next test?” Jennifer asked.

“Familial love,” Albert said.

A young family with two children, a boy and a girl, were escorted into the room. They nervously sat down in four chairs and waited. Albert watched while the children played quietly together and the parents nervously clenched and unclenched their fists. The parents’ eyes were trained intently on the two little kids, but they weren’t seeing them. The children clambered over each other as the doctor entered. The parents stood and shook his hand.

Albert and Jennifer watched in thick silence. Albert wanted to say something but he felt the uncomfortable clenching in his throat preventing him from reaching out to anyone with communication. Jennifer studiously took down notes.

The doctor told the parents that both the children were terminally ill and that with their resources they could only save one of them and that the parents would have to choose which one.

Albert felt himself sinking farther into his chair, swimming in the melting room. Noises around him blared loud but foreign, berating at him like reality was a smelly toddler shaking it's fat fists. The chairs and desk and wall and everything looked plastic like it had been torn from a child’s cheap dollhouse. Albert sadly let his head fall into his hands. His data about love welled up in his stomach and he heaved quietly without moving. The room around him, even the parts of it that he was physically touching, began to shrink farther away. Albert scanned his memory for friendly faces but they seemed small, distant, and unaware and exclusive of him.

On the walk home he swung into a hardware store. The man behind the counter scowled at him like he was a child out past curfew. He angrily rang up Albert’s products and slipped them mechanically into a plastic sack. Albert watched through wide eyes, terrified and screaming out from the prisoning cage of his skull. The cashier seemed too far away to hand Albert his bag, but somehow he managed to reach it.

Jennifer watched from across the street as Albert left the hadware store and went home. She adjusted her neat ponytail and entered a nearby building.

“How is test subject 1487 doing?” asked a man in a long lab coat holding a clipboard. All of the brilliant scientist eyes in the room turned to Jennifer.

“The same as all the other test subjects.” Jennifer answered quietly. “He didn’t react well to the tests. I don’t think he even said goodbye to me when he left.”

“Peculiar.” said a scientist with frizzy red hair.

“And,” Jennifer added with a sad head shake. “I just saw Albert, I mean 1487, walking into a hardware store…”

“Excellent,” said frizzy hair.

The other scientists nodded and pulled out a chair for Jennifer, indicating that the young scientist join them.

“Don't you guys think this is a really immoral test? Why are we studying how people react when forced to question love? 1486 tests have yielded the same findings,” she said. "It doesn't seem ethical."

“It’s not for us to question who designs these experiments.” Someone handed her a paper plate with a slice of greasy pizza on it.

“Right,” Jennifer said softly, biting into her pizza.

A few miles away Albert let himself into his apartment. He sat the plastic grocery bag on the table. Without turning any of the lights on he made a tomato sandwhich and ate it by himself in the darkness. He rested his spectacles on the counter. He took the rope from the plastic bag, neatly put the bag into a cupboard. The bored cat slinked out from under the table and rubbed against his calves. Albert fed him and let the cat outside into the street. The streetlights smiled up at him, waving superficially past the emptiness through Albert to a person who he wasn't. Albert patiently went back inside, letting the nothingness of the night inside with him. No one in the apartment complex even winced at the heavy sound of the chair clattering to the ground.

Dear Spanaway, we're fighting

Last night when Yogi picked me up I clambered into his mom's car with my microphone and amp. "Why are you bringing that?" he asked. "The booker called and said there was no PA." Sadly this was not the first clue that the show we were about to go to would be a horrible mess of sadness and souls crying and comedy dying. That shouldn't have rhymed. We picked Emmett up and had a nice hour long or so conversation about puppets, beards (Yogi's and Emmett's, not mine), movies I haven't seen, getting high and bottom intercourse in the bottom hole.

As soon as we get to the restaurant I read the "Family Fun Restauraunt!" marquee and groan. In bright clip-art style font: "Kids eat free on weekdays!" Seriously. The waitress goes "You're the comedian? Honey, you look like you're 15." Which isn't too surprising, except I hadn't spoken yet. I don't look like I'm 15 I SOUND that way. And without any sounds coming out of my squeaky childlike lispy mouth, there is no way to guess that. I took it as a compliment because I could tell by her sparkly studded belt that she thought 15 was a pretty cool age to be.

Almost immedietly the owner of the restaurant attacks us and tells us that the comedy shows have been going really poorly and that no one has been funny. He said it like an angry accusation that already he had decided we weren't funny, as I watched out of the corner of my eyes the waitresses moving the kids tables and high chairs out of the way to create space for the comics to stand. He proceeded to tell us that a local guy was going to open for us and he was bringing 40-50 people and that he'd never gone up before. I said that was fantastic of course he can do a guest spot if he's bringing that type of crowd. "Yeah," the owner of the family fun restaurant says, "so he'll be getting his half hour." "Half hour?" I said. "He's never gone up before? Realistically he'll probably want to do 3-5 minutes for his first time." The owner exploded, "I have had calls coming in asking about this guy all week! I have had more interest in him than I have in any of these other comedians who I've never heard of before. He's getting his half hour of time."

The average age of the audience in the more redneck version of denny's is 60. They all look like they're about to fart or die. This new guy James had brought maybe 6 people instead of 40 and they were all just like really out of it, like they were high but I don't think they were. Just staring into space not facing me. I opened as the mc with attempting to fire it up (they cheered and clapped as much as I would expect them to in a well lit Denny's.) I did my condom joke and the greedy stripper. The condom joke got laughs in weird places but worked. The greedy stripper bombed. I brought this new guy James up and he played some cheesy intro music and danced a bit. Then he sat on the stool. (Used up all the energy with his intro?) and for half an hour he talked (no jokes) and ate shit. He didn't seem to care that he was bombing. I ate my veggie burger and drank my two beers quickly trying to quench the despair rising inside me.

After James I went back up and proceeded to start to do jokes. I did maybe two jokes. They wanted a relateable comedian who they could watch and laugh at and be like "oh yes women do go shopping! I can identify with that! Commonality makes me feel less insignificant and boring!" I don't have a lot of relatebility on stage unless the audience also has spent a few days not leaving their apartment because they're afraid that by interacting with their friends and family they're making everyone's reality worse. When I started going into my Hulk joke I stopped and said "Do you guys know who the hulk is?" Nothing. I stumbled verbally. "What kind of jokes do you guys like? I have hundreds I'm sure I have something." Silence. I addressed a guy in the front row. "Sir, what kind of jokes do you like?" "Nah, you doin fine, you doin good." "If I'm doing 'good' then why aren't you laughing?" Nothing. I started bringing random audience members on stage to try to warm them up. When I brought two women on stage and tried to talk to them who looked bored one of them told me, "Well fuck this joke, just do the next one!" and ran back off the 'stage.' I moved on to singing songs to people in the crowd and started doing better. I got a sing a long going and decided that was as warm as they were going to get.

I brought Yogi up and he did well. He just did his material and didn't address the crowd or talk about how much it sucked. I could tell that he was miserable up there. He got off stage looking really down and I brought Emmett up. Emmett had the best set. He didn't do a lot of his alternativer stuff but mainly did stories and tried to engage the crowd. That whole night Emmett was kind to everybody, even the bar owner who was a short angry man on the verge of yelling, the new guy who did half an hour, and the booker who had no idea what the fuck a comedy show was supposed to be. Fact: it should not be in a family fun restaurant. I wished after seeing Emmett's set that I had more story jokes. My favorite line of the night was when he was telling a story about his wife and he was talking to the audience: "How long have you folks been married? 23 years? That's older than Barbara....'s self esteem! Anyone else been married longer than 2 weeks?"

Yogi is one of the most hilarious and hard working comedians I know. He's got a special talent, especially for riffing/thinking on the fly/being in the moment that most comics don't. He is one of the most creative and unique voices I've ever met. He's an amazingly funny person and comic, consistently getting better and he's one of my best friends. And that show made him doubt himself as a performer. So you might wonder, was it worth it to get $30 and a free burger and two beers to do a shitty room? Sure. But was it worth it to make a hilarious friend of mine feel bad about himself? Nothing is fucking worth that ever. That room is where comedy goes to die.

The only good thing about doing completely awful family fun style hick restaurants with senior citizens as the audience is that comparitively I won't be scared of those snobby hipsters.