Showing posts with label autism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autism. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Unable to MoveOn.org
So I know I’ve been way behind on bloggery, and I have much to catch you up on, but I forgot to post a little tidbit from “Sad Girl” (remember her from that time I went to 8th grade prom?). She’s since graduated high school and is living on her own. Adult life hasn’t been so good to her. It seems, you can take Sad Girl out of high school, but you can’t take the….sadness out of the sad girl.
I don’t know if you guys know about this, but I’ve been going through a really hard time lately. Work is a total bitch, and my former drag queen of a boss (that’s not meant to be derogatory, that’s just a fact) keeps telling me that I’m “sick and suffering.” Yesterday, the online editor got pissed at me because I finally told her why I don’t like her (she doesn’t respect my dominance). And Halloween’s coming up, and I have no idea what to be (a slutty fireman? A slutty bunny? Muslim film star Delta Burqa?).
Not that I have anywhere to go anyway. No one invites me out anymore, and it sucks. I got Netflix a few months ago to help quell the ache, but even movies have gotten boring.
I check my email every 5 minutes, hoping for an Evite to som—
Oh my god, guess what?! I just got an email from a guy named Chuck S. It’s titled “Come to my party in New York on Saturday?”
I LIVE IN NEW YORK! Chuck knows that, I’m sure, or he wouldn’t have invited me. I don’t know who he is off the top of my head, but I’m sure we met somewhere a year or so back, when I used to be social.
Ugh, thank god. I was freaking out over not having plans. Okay, now I’ll go to Ricky’s and get a costume. I wonder if anyone hot will be there. Maybe Chuck’s hot. Should I bring candy? Let me open the email and see the deets.
ARE. YOU. FUCKING. KIDDING. ME?
Hi,
We're just 5 days from the election, and dozens of races could come down to just a handful of votes. We could end up with narrow Democratic wins in a ton of close races, or a Republican takeover of our government, and it all comes comes down to which side has more volunteers getting out the vote.
I'm not going to let right-wing Republicans take over Congress.
So I'm hosting an election call party on Saturday in New York. I'm inviting people over to make calls to sign up volunteers for our candidates.
I can't do it alone. So if you've got a couple hours to spare this weekend—or even if you don't!--please, please, please come to my party. It's up to all of us in the next 5 days.
Why doesn’t anyone ever invite me anywhere fun?
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I Wish I Lived on Planet Unicorn
Hey Guys,
I'm getting a little worried about myself. I've become totally anti-social. Blacktress used to enjoy people, a good late-night story, and hearing the ramblings of a drunken stranger. Now, my eyelids are getting droopy at 9pm. Friends who I haven't seen in months want to hang out, and I, much like an angry toddler, DON'T WANNA!!! I pretty much only want to watch movies and sleep as often as possible. I was prompted to share this because, in yet another step forward, Jewboo has shared his Google calendar with me, allowing for easy stalking. I've been on the inside for a week, but he emailed me this morning, asking to give him access to mine--and I DON'T WANNA!!!
I asked for his calendar cause he's super busy, with his rehearsals and writing meetings, and film screenings (for an unemployed man, he really packs the time in).
If he were to see my google calendar, he'd see a whole lot of nothing, sprinkled in with therapy appointments and art workshops/classes I don't even want to attend. I tend to make myself busy at the last minute, if I feel particularly loser-ish--or, I just want to stay at home on the free nights. What if he looks at my free days, asks me to do something, and I can't make up an excuse? Will he get offended if I say, "Oh, I can't, I'm busy," and he sees a big fat empty space in my calendar? Then I'll have to explain, "I planned to go home and watch Angel reruns on netflix." That'd make me less attractive, yes?
My current state reminds me of a quote from one of the greatest films of our time--Wayne's World. Wayne, while wooing Cassandra in her hip car, says, "I thought I had mono for a year, but it just turns out I was really bored."
I think I can relate. Of course, seeing people should assuage my boredom, but to me it's just a lot of energy to expend pretending to care about the lives of folks I don't see often enough to really matter. Don't get me wrong--I like humans,they are nice, and their interests in the goings on of a blacktress is much appreciated. But, like, do I have to talk to them? Like, regularly?
Blurgh. Clearly, my autism is flaring up something serious.
Why don't I try to turn this whiny post around with an old episode of Planet Unicorn? It makes me laugh no matter what. Deep in my heart, I am an 8-year-old gay boy named Shannon.
I'm getting a little worried about myself. I've become totally anti-social. Blacktress used to enjoy people, a good late-night story, and hearing the ramblings of a drunken stranger. Now, my eyelids are getting droopy at 9pm. Friends who I haven't seen in months want to hang out, and I, much like an angry toddler, DON'T WANNA!!! I pretty much only want to watch movies and sleep as often as possible. I was prompted to share this because, in yet another step forward, Jewboo has shared his Google calendar with me, allowing for easy stalking. I've been on the inside for a week, but he emailed me this morning, asking to give him access to mine--and I DON'T WANNA!!!
I asked for his calendar cause he's super busy, with his rehearsals and writing meetings, and film screenings (for an unemployed man, he really packs the time in).
If he were to see my google calendar, he'd see a whole lot of nothing, sprinkled in with therapy appointments and art workshops/classes I don't even want to attend. I tend to make myself busy at the last minute, if I feel particularly loser-ish--or, I just want to stay at home on the free nights. What if he looks at my free days, asks me to do something, and I can't make up an excuse? Will he get offended if I say, "Oh, I can't, I'm busy," and he sees a big fat empty space in my calendar? Then I'll have to explain, "I planned to go home and watch Angel reruns on netflix." That'd make me less attractive, yes?
My current state reminds me of a quote from one of the greatest films of our time--Wayne's World. Wayne, while wooing Cassandra in her hip car, says, "I thought I had mono for a year, but it just turns out I was really bored."
I think I can relate. Of course, seeing people should assuage my boredom, but to me it's just a lot of energy to expend pretending to care about the lives of folks I don't see often enough to really matter. Don't get me wrong--I like humans,they are nice, and their interests in the goings on of a blacktress is much appreciated. But, like, do I have to talk to them? Like, regularly?
Blurgh. Clearly, my autism is flaring up something serious.
Why don't I try to turn this whiny post around with an old episode of Planet Unicorn? It makes me laugh no matter what. Deep in my heart, I am an 8-year-old gay boy named Shannon.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
It’s cool, not trying to put a rush on you…
But I gotta let you know that I got a crush on… well, not you, this other dude.
Guys, I am totes crushin’ like a 14 year old. There’s this actor who was, like, made for me. FOR ME.
He is 6’4”, he has red hair (holla at a genetic anomaly!), and he is so pasty pale that he is damn near translucent.
He is so lacking in pigment that he appears to have no eyebrows or eyelashes – how does he fight off debris?! What about sweat?! He’s a medical marvel, and I must now how he survives. Maybe’s he’s one of the X-Men or something.
His skin is like porcelain, and looks as soft and smooth as vanilla pudding.
His hair is the color of honey and strawberry jam mixed together
His eyes are as blue as the ocean and the sky - no, the horizon line, where the ocean and sky meet
I am going on about his physical appearance because I have yet to speak to him for more than 2 seconds.
I met him through a mutual friend a couple months ago, and he seemed kinda cold, but this could be because our friend put me on blast, mentioning that when he and I first met, I hugged him and proclaimed, “you will be my winter spoon.” It wasn’t quite the impression I’d hoped to make, but I shook it off.
But I couldn’t get him off of my mind.
I think I know how Bella must have felt the first time she saw Edward.
This past weekend, a friend of mine told me she ran into this same redhead at a party and he referred to me as “a beautiful black woman.” HOLY SHIT.
Needless to say, the flame was rekindled.
I saw him last night at a party, and he was looking as good as ever, all pasty and piercing, with those eyes of his. It would have been a great time to walk up and say hello, now that I was armed with the knowledge that he was down with the brown. However, I was held back by the fact that, whenever I’m surrounded by improvisers, actors, and/or comedians, I become mildly autistic, painfully self-conscious, and my tongue turns to lead. Add that the fact that I wasn’t drinking, and you pretty much have me at the age of 13.
So, instead of re-introducing myself, saying hello, or complimenting him on his show like the strong black woman that I am, I just stared at him longingly/mildly creepily at random moments. This didn’t really bother me at first, because I know deep in my heart that I don’t need to date anyone at all right now, and if I never speak to him, he can never fail me (we all know how I emo I get when things don’t go well).
But after a while I realized that I was basically eye-fucking the poor pasty chap without consent, and the ultimate closure would be to speak to him and realize that he’s racist or something equally deal-breaking so I could stop idealizing. So, in an attempt to close the chapter on what was becoming my own personal Twilight, I told my friend about my crush and asked him what I should do. I believe my exact phraseology was, “How can I get in with ___? And by ‘get in with,’ I don’t mean his P in my V as much as a real conversation.” His advice was threefold:
-Mention Guns N Roses
-Tell him you’re Jewish
-Play with his elbow skin.
The last one was a mockery of my personal penchant for pinching elbow skin (weird, I know. Accept it.), and was just another way to set me up for embarrassment. Based on the first two suggestions, however, it would seem that so far my crush and I have absolutely nothing in common. This won’t stop me from an introduction, though. I’m thinking:
“When I was a little girl in Addis Ababa – I’m an Ethiopian Jew – I remember seeing Guns and Roses on the MTV VMA’s in 1992. Slash’s solo…. Am I right?”
I don’t know anything about said solo, but I’ll let him fill in the blank and get the ball rolling. A conversation is, after all, a two-way street… one that you pave over and construct manipulative roadblocks on to lead the driver (your crush) into the tunnel of LOVE.
I mean, whatever. It's just (just) a little crush (crush) - not like I faint every time we touch.
If you don't know what that line is from, let me take you back to the late 90s, friend.
Guys, I am totes crushin’ like a 14 year old. There’s this actor who was, like, made for me. FOR ME.
He is 6’4”, he has red hair (holla at a genetic anomaly!), and he is so pasty pale that he is damn near translucent.
He is so lacking in pigment that he appears to have no eyebrows or eyelashes – how does he fight off debris?! What about sweat?! He’s a medical marvel, and I must now how he survives. Maybe’s he’s one of the X-Men or something.
His skin is like porcelain, and looks as soft and smooth as vanilla pudding.
His hair is the color of honey and strawberry jam mixed together
His eyes are as blue as the ocean and the sky - no, the horizon line, where the ocean and sky meet
I am going on about his physical appearance because I have yet to speak to him for more than 2 seconds.
I met him through a mutual friend a couple months ago, and he seemed kinda cold, but this could be because our friend put me on blast, mentioning that when he and I first met, I hugged him and proclaimed, “you will be my winter spoon.” It wasn’t quite the impression I’d hoped to make, but I shook it off.
But I couldn’t get him off of my mind.
I think I know how Bella must have felt the first time she saw Edward.
This past weekend, a friend of mine told me she ran into this same redhead at a party and he referred to me as “a beautiful black woman.” HOLY SHIT.
Needless to say, the flame was rekindled.
I saw him last night at a party, and he was looking as good as ever, all pasty and piercing, with those eyes of his. It would have been a great time to walk up and say hello, now that I was armed with the knowledge that he was down with the brown. However, I was held back by the fact that, whenever I’m surrounded by improvisers, actors, and/or comedians, I become mildly autistic, painfully self-conscious, and my tongue turns to lead. Add that the fact that I wasn’t drinking, and you pretty much have me at the age of 13.
So, instead of re-introducing myself, saying hello, or complimenting him on his show like the strong black woman that I am, I just stared at him longingly/mildly creepily at random moments. This didn’t really bother me at first, because I know deep in my heart that I don’t need to date anyone at all right now, and if I never speak to him, he can never fail me (we all know how I emo I get when things don’t go well).
But after a while I realized that I was basically eye-fucking the poor pasty chap without consent, and the ultimate closure would be to speak to him and realize that he’s racist or something equally deal-breaking so I could stop idealizing. So, in an attempt to close the chapter on what was becoming my own personal Twilight, I told my friend about my crush and asked him what I should do. I believe my exact phraseology was, “How can I get in with ___? And by ‘get in with,’ I don’t mean his P in my V as much as a real conversation.” His advice was threefold:
-Mention Guns N Roses
-Tell him you’re Jewish
-Play with his elbow skin.
The last one was a mockery of my personal penchant for pinching elbow skin (weird, I know. Accept it.), and was just another way to set me up for embarrassment. Based on the first two suggestions, however, it would seem that so far my crush and I have absolutely nothing in common. This won’t stop me from an introduction, though. I’m thinking:
“When I was a little girl in Addis Ababa – I’m an Ethiopian Jew – I remember seeing Guns and Roses on the MTV VMA’s in 1992. Slash’s solo…. Am I right?”
I don’t know anything about said solo, but I’ll let him fill in the blank and get the ball rolling. A conversation is, after all, a two-way street… one that you pave over and construct manipulative roadblocks on to lead the driver (your crush) into the tunnel of LOVE.
I mean, whatever. It's just (just) a little crush (crush) - not like I faint every time we touch.
If you don't know what that line is from, let me take you back to the late 90s, friend.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
My New Frenemy
So, I mentioned my reparations in the form of UCB classes, right? Well, they just keep on giving, as this past Saturday I got a call from the theater saying I'd won the lottery!!
Instead of receiving heaps of cash (which my unemployed ass could use), I got the chance to perform on Harold Night with professional house team members, one of whom happened to be my future life partner, Jeff Hiller (I blog about him way too much). The plan was for 10 students, chosen from different levels of classes, to be broken up into two teams with 4 pro-team members on each. We'd do long-form improv, learning and growing with the help of the hardcore improvisers.
We had a rehearsal on Sunday, and us 10 students got to work. Our teacher was another professional improviser, and from the moment I walked in, I was a smitten kitten.
Two words: read beard.
Third word: SWOON!
Our rehearsal went pretty well, but we were such a hodgepodge. Some kids were just starting improv 101, and would now be expected to do the hardcore stuff in front of an audience WITH THE PROS! I was feeling pretty confident, because I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and gosh darnit, people like me!
This all changed pre-show last night. I had no energy and hadn't had a chance to get in the improv headspace, so I just wasn't sure how good I'd be. I started running in place and making stupid jokes to get myself together. When I found out I was put on Jeff Hiller's team, and I knew all would be right in the world. After all, I'm obsessed with him, and although he's never seen me improvise, we do great work together. See for yourself:
Anyhoo, I figured at the very least, I'd let the pros lead the way, and I'd follow along.
Turns out, this blacktress isn't riding the back of the bus! All my scenes went really well, and post-show, I got alot of positive feedback from audience members and improvisers. I think I'm on my way to diversifying UCB from the inside--holla!
However, I have a frenemy in my way. She's another young blacktress who also got the diversity scholarship, and she's very cute. She's got that natural afro, a huge smile, and she's from the Midwest, which, coupled with the fact that she just graduated college in May, makes her bubbly and really smiley and optimistic.
She must be stopped.
She's somewhat funny, and I do want to support fellow blacktresses, but her shiny happy virgin-whore act is making her the blacktress-belle of the improv ball! WHAT ABOUT ME?!?!??! I'm older, I'm smarter, and way better baby-making material.
I wasn't trying to hate until last night, when we all hit up the UCB post-show hot spot, this dingy pub near 14th street. I told her about my fatty crush on Redbeard, and she's like, "let's go talk to him." We start to go over, then get sidetracked by fellow students. While we're talking, my frenemy walks over to Redbeard, and out of the corner of my eye I see her hugging all up on him! HELL TO THE NO!
That's when I knew she couldn't be trusted. We're supposed to have each other's back, not try to tap each other's wanna-be boos!
She hadn't met him before Sunday, there was no reason to touch (especially since most male improvisers, when taken off stage, display signs of mild autism), and SHE KNEW I WANTED HIM BAD BAD BAD.
If she wants to play by those rules, game is on.
God, jealousy and hatred are such lame emotions, and yet I'm finding them oddly satisfying in this moment. In fact, it wasn't until one of my main gays pointed me in the frenemy direction that I realized what I had to do.
Performing was great, and I felt so good afterwards, but it's the schmoozing with other improvisers that's tough for me. I've seen so many of them around the city over the years, and there are so many awkward bearded hotties, and I don't know how to approach them. See, in my head, we have elaborate relationships, we've known each other from the very first day I saw them on stage, and we're supposed to be best friends. In their heads, I'm a random girl who won't stop staring at them across the room.
It makes for uncomfortable dynamics.
Alot of the other students are nice, but some are so into the scene that it's weird, and others are simply not funny and boring. I'd prefer to get in with the veterans, get practical information and advice from those who have been through it, but I don't know how to make our love happen.
Any suggestions as to how to penetrate the world of Comedic Caucasia?
Instead of receiving heaps of cash (which my unemployed ass could use), I got the chance to perform on Harold Night with professional house team members, one of whom happened to be my future life partner, Jeff Hiller (I blog about him way too much). The plan was for 10 students, chosen from different levels of classes, to be broken up into two teams with 4 pro-team members on each. We'd do long-form improv, learning and growing with the help of the hardcore improvisers.
We had a rehearsal on Sunday, and us 10 students got to work. Our teacher was another professional improviser, and from the moment I walked in, I was a smitten kitten.
Two words: read beard.
Third word: SWOON!
Our rehearsal went pretty well, but we were such a hodgepodge. Some kids were just starting improv 101, and would now be expected to do the hardcore stuff in front of an audience WITH THE PROS! I was feeling pretty confident, because I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and gosh darnit, people like me!
This all changed pre-show last night. I had no energy and hadn't had a chance to get in the improv headspace, so I just wasn't sure how good I'd be. I started running in place and making stupid jokes to get myself together. When I found out I was put on Jeff Hiller's team, and I knew all would be right in the world. After all, I'm obsessed with him, and although he's never seen me improvise, we do great work together. See for yourself:
Anyhoo, I figured at the very least, I'd let the pros lead the way, and I'd follow along.
Turns out, this blacktress isn't riding the back of the bus! All my scenes went really well, and post-show, I got alot of positive feedback from audience members and improvisers. I think I'm on my way to diversifying UCB from the inside--holla!
However, I have a frenemy in my way. She's another young blacktress who also got the diversity scholarship, and she's very cute. She's got that natural afro, a huge smile, and she's from the Midwest, which, coupled with the fact that she just graduated college in May, makes her bubbly and really smiley and optimistic.
She must be stopped.
She's somewhat funny, and I do want to support fellow blacktresses, but her shiny happy virgin-whore act is making her the blacktress-belle of the improv ball! WHAT ABOUT ME?!?!??! I'm older, I'm smarter, and way better baby-making material.
I wasn't trying to hate until last night, when we all hit up the UCB post-show hot spot, this dingy pub near 14th street. I told her about my fatty crush on Redbeard, and she's like, "let's go talk to him." We start to go over, then get sidetracked by fellow students. While we're talking, my frenemy walks over to Redbeard, and out of the corner of my eye I see her hugging all up on him! HELL TO THE NO!
That's when I knew she couldn't be trusted. We're supposed to have each other's back, not try to tap each other's wanna-be boos!
She hadn't met him before Sunday, there was no reason to touch (especially since most male improvisers, when taken off stage, display signs of mild autism), and SHE KNEW I WANTED HIM BAD BAD BAD.
If she wants to play by those rules, game is on.
God, jealousy and hatred are such lame emotions, and yet I'm finding them oddly satisfying in this moment. In fact, it wasn't until one of my main gays pointed me in the frenemy direction that I realized what I had to do.
Performing was great, and I felt so good afterwards, but it's the schmoozing with other improvisers that's tough for me. I've seen so many of them around the city over the years, and there are so many awkward bearded hotties, and I don't know how to approach them. See, in my head, we have elaborate relationships, we've known each other from the very first day I saw them on stage, and we're supposed to be best friends. In their heads, I'm a random girl who won't stop staring at them across the room.
It makes for uncomfortable dynamics.
Alot of the other students are nice, but some are so into the scene that it's weird, and others are simply not funny and boring. I'd prefer to get in with the veterans, get practical information and advice from those who have been through it, but I don't know how to make our love happen.
Any suggestions as to how to penetrate the world of Comedic Caucasia?
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