Okay, so first of all, “naked with black socks” describes my Boyfriend’s boudoir style perfectly. No, really. This man will get ready to go to bed, take off all his clothes… except his socks. And then he’ll walk around the flat, trying to find his phone, packing his work backpack, hunting for his sports newspaper… all while naked in black socks. It’s irritating and I’m always glad when he finally finds his pyjamas.
That being said…
The idea of talking to people at all, ever, in general, terrifies me. To the point where I get depressed when I have too much people contact. Happened to me just this week. I had an appointment with a professor to discuss a paper I had submitted, that same day I met my parents for dinner, then the next day I had another uni related thing. I almost started crying on public transport on my way home. No, it’s not rational. No, it doesn’t make sense to me, either. All I know is that always happens when I get too much sociality shoved at me. I have to time my entire social life around mental rest days, because otherwise I might make plans with people and on the day those plans are supposed to happen, even if I like the people involved, I feel like I’d rather nail my feet to the side of a moving car than to see any of those bitches.
Now put me in front of an audience.
Ironically, I was in a theatre group in high school. I never had problems on stage. Never forgot my lines. Never got stage fright. Probably because I wasn’t on stage as myself, but as someone else.
That’s why I hold presentations like I’m doing a stand-up routine. Relevant jokes and puns all planned. Three copies of notes. I used to be extremely intimidated by public speaking, to the point where I was literally shaking so much I lost grip on my cue cards. I started pretending I was playing a role to get over it.
I mean, my original strategy was drinking a tall glass of whiskey with a little whiskey and a shot of whiskey before I came up with this solution, but hey, I got there. Now when I have to talk in front of a crowd I get out there and I’m not myself. I’m a 2.0 version of myself, someone who has her shit together and can open her damn mouth without stuttering.
Problem is, I have to play this role all the time. All damn day. Being an actor is exhausting, we all read the interviews. Now imagine you can never get out of your role again, ever. I can’t be myself with people because Myself would rather book a shuttle to Mars, but then, even if you can book online something will go wrong and I’d have to call the travel agency, and then at the space port there’d be people checking my passport, and gaaaaaarrrrrrgggghhhh, you can’t escape people.
And everyone’s still complaining that I talk too fast. Yes, I’m talking fast, you know why, because my brain is trying to run away from you. It’s detaching itself from my brain stem as I speak and tries to squeeze out of my right ear. When you see me moving my head side to side it’s not because I’m giving emphasis to the joke I’m telling you, it’s to get my brain to stay put because if I don’t it’s going to be half-way to Mexico and you’ll be talking to zombie-me. Zombie-me is not what you’d call a good conversationalist.
Ironically, again, is that people often describe me as hilarious once they get me alone. I can be the life of the party, provided the party consists of three to eight people and I know everyone. And there’s not too much background noise. And I’m not tired. But when the moon’s just right and the stars align and all that, I’m apparently really entertaining and everyone is surprised. But I mean… I have to wait an appropriate twelve months before letting slip the hounds of weirdness. You can’t tell inappropriate and slightly kinky jokes to just anyone, you know, that would be rude.
I’m just waiting for humanity to climb the next rung on the evolutionary ladder and develop telepathy. That would be so much easier! Everyone could see clearly that my reclusive shut-in brain is scared of social interaction and they’d keep it brief. Maybe. Or maybe they’d just start singing terrible and catchy songs inside their heads to annoy me. And all their thoughts would make so much noise.
Dammit! You just can’t escape people. One-way ticket to Planet Nine, please.