I had a panic attack during sex when I was 19.
Now that I know what a panic attack actually feels like, I’m 99.9% sure that I had one with a girl that I met at a club.
The build up was too much, and I was out of my league.
“What am I doing with this girl?!”
“She is way too hot for me?!”
“She’s gonna think my dick looks weird. Fuck, it does look weird. I have a weird dick.”
“Would my mom like her?”
“I need to get milk.”
“I’m so drunk, with a hot girl, and thinking about my mom and my weird dick-
- Accelerated heart rate.
- Increased blood pressure.
- black spots in your peripheral.
Panic attack in 3…2….1….
“I gotta go, I need milk!”
…and I left.
I grabbed my pants and ran off without putting them on; I also left my shoes, my shirt, and my hat all at her house. I haven’t seen them since.
I had a panic attack over sex because I really needed milk.
I hate my psyche.
Let’s go back to that whole “Embellishing” thing at the beginning.
That story would’ve been the best thing ever to embellish on. Some flare or pizazz could’ve made that slightly, amusing story…pure gold.
It can add to the writing, even making a mediocre tale achieve greatness. It’s an assist, a star for your Mario, or spinach for Popeye.
…and I rarely use it when I write.
I use it all the time in my normal life on Facebook.
I’ll make a blog entry about being naked, 23 floors up on the balcony of a condo, to commit suicide.
No added flare. No tall tales.
Example B: Facebook check in: Comedy Club
All of sudden I’m Aesop with my fables!
“Great comedy show! This is amazing, can’t believe I’m doing professional comedy!”
Here’s what I don’t tell you in that update:
- I’m praying that my car will make it home after the gig, because, I only have 5 miles worth of gas for a 7-mile trip.
- I only did 5 minutes of comedy, as opposed to the headliner who did 45.
- I got lucky through connections to even get the gig.
- Most places I do comedy will let anyone get up if you have done one open mic.
- I get paid for usually 1 out of every 10 gigs that I do…poorly.
- I really have a weird looking dick.
Exhibit A: Facebook profile pic.
Exhibit B- “Works at-”
I work at two part time jobs and I would say comedy & writing ACTUALLY brings in about 1/10th of my monthly income. Neither ‘writer’ or ‘comedian’ is enough to quit a day job yet.
So I’m not working in comedy, but if my profile says it…it must be true.
We live in an age where you can type out what you always wanted to be.
I could be a fucking princess if I wanted to be, and all I’d have to do is know how to type it in my profile and post a picture of a tiara.
I’ve been seeing this syndrome more and more. It doesn’t have to be comedy though, or acting, or singing, or anything in the entertainment field-
It’s uploading a picture of you and your boyfriend and overly celebrating how ‘happy’ you are.
No you aren’t, and if you use more than 3 exclamation points in a sentence I will delete you.
It’s saying how much you ‘Love life right now baby!’
It’s proclaiming, ‘I’m on my way! Look out life, it’s a new leaf!’
…but sometimes we aren’t.
Sometimes we are just having a panic attack during sex. Meaning that yes, it’s a moment worth sharing, but not worth embellishing.
I want my life to stop having forced exclamation points.
In “Catch Me If You Can”, the main character faked being many different professions (doctor, lawyer, pilot, etc.)
I feel like for the last six months I’ve slightly photo-shopped my qualifications and accolades in comedy. I keep looking over my shoulder. You notice the people who seem to point out your bullshit of ‘coming a long way on stage, baby!’
You realize your career isn’t as great as you make it to sound on social media.
Your relationship isn’t as perfect as the photos you share.
The photo of you dressed up to go ‘out’ looks great, but nobody knows in reality you only have $12 in your pocket for the whole night.
I want my accomplishments to speak for themselves without me forcing them upon an innocent friends list.
I want to get caught. The only way to do that is by striving harder for this whole comedy thing. Right now it’s a glorified hobby, but I’m trying to mold it without breaking it.
Catch me if you can.
(P.S. I need to get milk.)