We’ve all seen comedians take real aspects of their personality and stretch them out until they become grotesque caricatures of people. Guys like Woody Allen, Larry David et all have been doing it for years. That scene is old. I’m going to take it to the next level. The aftermath.
I’m looking to tap into that rich comedy vein of crippling paranoia that afflicts me whenever I float a joke that exaggerates some part of my normal behaviour. For the first two hours it seems like a great idea (this is for Internet stuff. If it’s real-life conversation adjust that to eight seconds). Then the unstoppable thought flutters at the back of my brain. “What if they think I’m serious?” quickly followed by “Was I serious?” Then I backtrack, which is always a good idea, right? Nothing keeps conversation fluid like saying “No, but really. I don’t actually have a problem with night terrors.”
This isn’t so much a problem with strangers. Or the seven people in the world who actually know me. It’s more an issue with those acquaintances dallying in the wings of the stage production that is my life. Mainly the hot ones.
I want to write about how I’m afraid to make jokes about picnicing under a cherry blossom tree in the spring because what if I want to ask someone to do that some day? I want to explain about how I’m sorry for making fun of Cecilia Ahern in the past because I’d still totally do her. Anonymity was the key. Anonymity.
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I’ve gotten to that point where I’m thinking of “accidentally” calling a girl to re-establish contact. You know where you say “Oh, sorry, I meant to call so-and-so. It’s difficult to dial while horseback riding. Anyway, how are you?” I think I’ll wait until I’m drunk. To make sure I sound as natural as possible.