The Exact Opposite of Okay(39)
Speaking of which, Ajita did something very thoughtful for me earlier. She made me laugh again! Yes, I am still capable of such jubilance. She arrived at my house with a beautifully wrapped package and a gift card written in her brother’s calligraphy pen. It read:
For when times get really tough. Love, A xo
And it was a bottle of bleach for me to drink!! She just gets me on a soul-deep level.
[I apologize if my bi-chapterly references to death-by-bleach are in any way triggering. You may have noticed this, but I use humor as an emotional crutch. Only twice have I ever considered actually drinking toilet cleaner, but we shall save those stories for another time. I am just a goldmine of hilarious yet emotionally wrought tales. You lucky devils. Good job on your decision to purchase/pirate this tome.]
4.08 p.m.
Text from Carson.
Hey, Iz. Sorry for dropping off the radar lately – family stuff. Anyway, if you wanna meet up and chat about anything that’s going on, give me a shout. Playing b-ball this afternoon, but free all day tomorrow. Let me know. C
Why is my chest fluttering like some sort of lovesick teenager? Seriously. This is Carson Manning we’re talking about. Class clown! Brisk fornicator! Why is my ridiculous crush on him escalating despite everything that’s going on?
There’s another part of me that’s relieved. After the debacle with Danny punching a locker, and then the sudden appearance of the WCW website, and then the leakage of my nude photo, an insecure part of me wondered if Carson would tap out of . . . whatever he and I are. I know he’s a generally good dude, but even so, it’s a lot of drama to willfully be associated with. And also it can’t be nice having the whole world know you only lasted a few seconds during a drunken one-night stand. Men inexplicably care about that kind of thing, as if lasting more than an hour in the sack is vital to their masculinity.
Look at me! Enduring a full-blown character assassination and yet still concerning myself with the sexual reputation of a fuckboy! Danny Wells could stand to learn a thing or two about empathy from me. [Oops, right back to sounding arrogant once again. Swings and roundabouts.]
6.21 p.m.
After school we go to Ajita’s to film a sketch or two. And, you know, generally take my mind off the hideous state of affairs plaguing my existence.
Our last YouTube upload racked up a dizzying 418 views, so we’re feeling quite high on our success and just the right amount of cocky to capitalize on it. We’ve roped in our fellow theater nerd Sharon, a Chinese-American girl with literally the best deadpanning skills you’ve ever seen in your life, to help out with a topical sketch I wrote before all the screenplay competition stuff kicked off. It’s essentially making a mockery of the “selfie pay” system MasterCard want to introduce – more silly than cuttingly satirical, but sometimes I’m just not in the mood to produce work of SNL quality.
It starts off with the following announcement over a bank’s loudspeaker: “Issues with selfie pay, up to and including dissatisfaction with the quality of your own face, are unlikely to be resolved in branch. Thank you.”
And then in walks a dude with a bag over his head, claiming that he is in fact also having problems with selfie pay. Obviously the branch manager is all, “Well, sir, on first diagnosis I’d say the paper bag over your head might be the issue.”
Anyway, it transpires that the disgruntled customer was involved in a cycling accident – a head-on collision with a Crisis Prevention truck. Because plausibility is not a great concern in skit-writing (which is precisely why I love it), this has left him with ISIS imprinted on his cheek. He’s all: “I uploaded a photo to my Facebook page and was contacted by an alarming number of admiring jihadis. Next thing I know, the FBI are on my doorstep. For some reason they found the truck story pretty far-fetched. After police tackled me to the ground outside a subway station, I thought a precaution couldn’t hurt. Hence the paper bag.”
Then the bank manager tries to get him to register a new face to his records, and he gets pretty mad at the whole fiasco. Like: “Will this override my previous face? It’s important you understand that I won’t be walking around with ISIS stamped onto my cheek indefinitely. Just until the swelling goes down.”
She won’t listen and he ends up yelling about how he’s an upstanding member of this country and how he’s fairly devastated that his own face is now a billboard for the gangrene of humanity. It’s all very touching stuff.
So as you can see, my brand of humor relies heavily on farcical events. But it actually feels pretty good to do something comedy and writing related in the midst of all the chaos. It kind of . . . centers me, if that makes sense. I know who I am when I’m writing and filming and telling jokes. And it’s always nice to have people laughing with you, not at you.
Danny is last to rock up, so I run through lines with Sharon while Ajita messes with lighting – a very professional and advanced combination of desk lamps, overhead chandeliers and one lonely light reflector. Once the set is all sorted [it’s in Ajita’s father’s study and not very convincingly banklike, but what can you do with no budget?] we just have to wait for Danny to arrive with his camera and mikes.
Ajita’s phone buzzes and she looks at the name on her screen discreetly. I wonder if it’s Carlie. I feel kind of terrible for still not addressing this possible romance with Ajita herself, but it’s been a crappy week and I’m so emotionally overwhelmed. I know it’s not an excuse, though. I need to be a better friend. She’s been so great with me over the last few weeks, and I should repay the favor. I make a mental note to check in with her next time we’re alone, even though it might be kinda uncomfortable for both of us. Emotional conversations are not our strong suit.