A Beautiful Day

Meeting someone you admire and respect for the first time can be a daunting prospect. As you approach, you can't help but experience a nervous flutter in the pit of your gut. Your hands get clammy with icky palm sweat, and your hearts speeds up to about a million beats per second. Part of you is excited, and another part is demanding you flee to the opposite direction. Now. At great speed.

Well, that's how I feel anyway. Your experience may vary.

So I did a thing today. I got to meet Felicia Day.

She just published a book, and today she stopped in Seattle on the last part of her tour. Myself along with about a thousand people were crammed into a church in North Seattle to listen to her speak, and then get our books autographed.

Now, I'm not usually the sort of guy who deliberately goes out of his way to meet a celebrity. I don't enjoy the huge crowds that inevitably spawn around famous people like murlocs on beachfront property.

I'm not a fan of waiting in long, tedious lines either. I don't think anybody is. Nor am I particularly fond of being in a large space with a bunch of people when the air is stuffy and a few degrees higher than is comfortable.

But I make an exception for Felicia Day, because she's awesome.

I'm not going to do that fan thing and start gushing. Because at the end of the day, celebrities are just people. They eat, drink, shower and sleep like the rest of us. That being said, she's one of those rare few who I can genuinely respect both as an artist and a person, because she's down to earth. She's unafraid to be her geeky self, and has done very well in turning that into an amazing career.

She lives how I'd like to live.

While I was waiting with one of my roommates, I got a flash of inspiration. I turned to my roommate and whispered to her, "I'm going to ask Felicia Day to check out my blog."

Naturally, as soon as the words left my mouth, I desperately tried to capture them. To no avail, of course. What the hell was I thinking? Felicia Day probably has fans requesting stuff like that all the time? No doubt she's a busy woman, with better things to do that read my nonsense.

My roommate turned to me and responded with a fierce, "Fuck yeah, you totally should."

Well, shit.

Fast forward another hour or so, and I stood in line to get my autographed copy of her book. The aforementioned nervous breakdown was going as planned. Peeking past a few people, I could see her at the end of the line, chatting animatedly with her fans. Yikes.

Finally my turn arrived. Swallowing my nervousness, I strode forward. She smiled and said hello. I think I responded in kind, but I honestly can't be sure. For all I know, I spewed green slime while spinning my in a head 360 degree circle.

She signed my book, and then stood next to me to have our photo taken. My arm around her waist, I plastered a fake confident smile on my face. It's the smile I use whenever I go to an audition and have to act like I don't want to vomit from nerves. Granted, by now I've mostly perfected it, so it looked genuine. Maybe.

After a few shots from my phone, there was a pause. The nice lady taking the picture for me looked up from my phone and said, "She's looking at you."

I turned my head, and there was Felicia Day smiling brightly at me, close enough to kiss.

I'm embarrassed to say this, but my confident mask slipped, and I found myself both amused and terrified at the same time. My smile sort of melted like wax and I looked, frankly, ridiculous.

The face of a star-struck idiot.

Felicia Day laughed and the fans laughed and I died a little inside. And it was over. As I collected my signed book, I remembered my presumptuous plan. I turned to face her.

"So, I hate to be that guy, but I sort of promised my roommate I'd try."

She looked back at me, her eyebrows quirked.

"I was wondering if you could check out my blog," I rushed, getting the words out before I lost my nerve. "You know, if you ever get a free moment."

"Wow," she responded after a pregnant pause, not quite smiling. "You get five bonus points for courage."

I grinned a big stupid grin as I stammered out an apology.

"No, it's fine," she said to me. "You have to take chances. Do what you have to do." And she smiled at me. It's okay for men to swoon, right?

I scampered away. Because I didn't want to hold up the line. And definitely not because I almost made like a chihuahua and peed a little.

"I wasn't scared at all. Not even a little. Nope."

So that happened. I don't expect she would actually check the blog out, but it would be really awesome if she did. Regardless, it was amazing getting to interact with one of my heroes.

Taking a break

I moved down to a part time employee at work the first week of July.

Being a teleradiology imaging assistant sounds fairly impressive on paper, but what it amounts to is being a glorified switch board operator at a company which is becoming more and more something I despise: a call center.

Now, to be fair, unlike some of the more hellish and evil call centers out there, we actually serve a useful and necessary purpose. Unlike, I don't know, Comcast or every motherfucking student loan agency on the planet, we actually help people. Sometimes, we even save lives. That helps me get through each shift, especially since I've come to learn in my two years in this position that hospital patients need all the help they can get. Because hospital staff, those learned individuals who are responsible for curing the sick, are almost all fucking morons.

I spend each work day on the phone, for hours, with a wide assortment of doctors, nurses, medical assistants, physicians assistants, technicians, and operators. A disturbingly large number of them are ignorant, irritating, lazy little prats. And so stupid. Doctors are whiny and pretentious, techs get paid entirely too much for how little they do-- they're like the Congress of hospitals-- and don't even get me started on your average nurse practitioner. Rather than rant your eyes out, I'll just say this: I have very little faith in the American Healthcare System.

Hence my decision to reduce my work hours. The irony is, since I started my new shift, I've been working more hours than usual; I've actually managed to accumulate consistent over-time, which just doesn't happen. I blame the incessant mewling of my near empty bank account.

Over the past few weeks, it has been pointed out at work that I've been in an extra foul mood. I didn't do anything to dissuade them of that idea, though it is patently incorrect. I'm always in a foul mood; my neutral emotional state is grumpy, and it just goes down hill from there. The difference is that I'm a credible actor; it would be unprofessional to snarl at my colleagues, so I expend a great deal of energy acting less grumpy than I truly am.

Lately, however, I haven't had the energy to pretend I'm not a cantankerous, misanthropic mess. Perhaps because I've been working so much more than usual. Maybe I'm just over the bullshit, and like Bilbo, I'm in need of a holiday.

That being said, I felt it was time to take some time off, and so for the first time in about seven weeks, I've not picked up any extra shifts. I get to sit back and enjoy a four day weekend. After that, I'll have a short three day work week, and then my vacation officially starts! I'll have a solid week and a half of free time, during which I'll get to meet Felicia Day (more on that later) and then go to Pax!

The real challenge is going to be figuring out what to do with myself besides that.

Eye of the Beholder? Or Skin Deep?

I spent the majority of my day hidden in my room, huddled in a dark corner while using a thick blanket as a shroud. Much like the way trolls are known to hide under bridges, I did my best to stay out of sight, away from the light of day.

Kind of like this, only less attractive.

I've made it no secret that I sometimes have confidence issues; in my youth, I often believed that the world at large had been created for the sole purpose of tormenting me. I was one bad day away from painting my nails black and becoming some kind of emo super villain.

I'm not going to subject anyone to the images I found on google of black emo guys, so here's a puppy instead.

Of course, I grew out of that as I got older and came to realization that the world was not actually out to get me. The world is a big enough dick to target us all, and it was arrogant of me to believe that I was a special snowflake that received closer attention when in fact we all are gifted with a giant middle finger.

That being said, there are some days were those old angsty feelings of emo rage creep to the surface like the foul contents of a leaking septic tank. You blink once, and suddenly your well maintained lawn is a sodden, shitty mess and your roses smell like Chris Christie's crotch after a humid afternoon spent watching the game while inhaling hot wings and stale beer.

Lately, I've been feeling very...unattractive. Not in the "I can't seem to get my hair the way I want it" way, but something more. The closest adjective I can come with is dumpy. I feel dumpy. According to Merriam-Webster, Dumpy is defined as "short and fat; dirty and in poor condition." And yes, I'm on the short side, and maybe I've picked up a few pounds. But I do shower and launder my clothes, so I have that going for me, right?

I can seem to shake this feeling that I'm some sort of pockmark on the face of humanity and that like the previous mentioned troll-- or Chris Christie-- I should spend less time in the bright light of day, and more time hanging out with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Down in the sewers, where no one can see me and sneer in disgust.

"Sorry, guy. Hot news reporters only."

Writing this is hard for two reasons. The first reason is that it's embarrassing to admit that in addition to ALL of the other issues I wrestle with-- misanthropy, surliness, destitution, and general laziness-- I also have to struggle with body image problems. The second reason is because even though it is 2015, as a man, I'm not allowed to talk about this particular problem. It sounds girly even to me, and I'm the one writing it. Body issues are for the women folk, society says, not charming, handsome rogues such as myself (I roll my eyes derisively at myself as I type that particular line).

The point being, there are days when I manage to feel halfway attractive; a hot shower, the right clothes, and I might even fool myself into believing I'm a good looking guy. And then there are days like today, where going to work was pure agony because I was sitting next to a hottie and I felt like the Sarlacc after a long night of binge drinking.

As a consequence, I spent the rest of the day miserable and depressed, unable to shake the sad conviction that I'm going to be alone forever, bereft of friends, family, and love. 

Now if that isn't the most angst ridden thing you've ever read in your life, I suggest you think long and hard about changing your reading material

A Milestone

July was an unusual month. I had a break from the standard suckfest that has become my day to day existence.

Okay, that's not entirely true. Lame shit did happen, as it always does, but there was some actual good things going on as well. The Ice-Crap Sundae had a liberal dose of whipped cream, rainbow sprinkles, and a cherry on top.

That isn't chocolate sauce.

First, I moved into a new area well away from that shithole known as Everett. Second, I finally got my work shift changed down to part time, freeing up four days a week for me to work on my other endeavors. That includes Fridays, meaning I can actually go out and possibly develop a social life.

And yes, I know what you're thinking. "Darren, you brilliant bastard, if you're constantly hard up for cash, how is reducing your hours going to improve that? Have you thought this through?"

Actually, yes, I have thought this through. You see, faceless comment-monkey, I'm still working roughly the same amount of hours per week. But rather than have a set schedule inhibiting me, I can freely pick up extra shifts whenever I feel, allowing me some much needed flexibility. And the best part is, thanks to a provision of the Affordable Care Act-- or "Obama Care," as it's commonly referred to-- I still get to keep all of my benefits while being part time.

"I'm still waiting for a 'Thank You.'"

It is this new found flexibility which allowed me to hit a milestone. Thanks to my new schedule, I was able to audition for a commercial I normally would have turned down due to it conflicting with my job. And thanks in part to my new shift, I got hired. That's right, I was cast in my very first commercial! After five long years, I can happily say that I am once again a paid actor.

It was filmed just a few days ago, on the 27th and 28th. I'm not ashamed to say that as the shoot date neared, I grew more and more apprehensive. After all, I'd never done any acting in front of a camera before, and new experiences can be nerve wracking.

But cold feet wasn't the issue. My own cynicism was.

There was a tiny, persistent voice in the back of my mind, constantly telling me that I was going to blow it, and ruin my chances of ever working as an actor again. 'Good things don't happen to me,' it whispered insidiously. And since good things don't happen, I was obviously being set up to fall down. Hard.

Pictured: Me

Clearly I need to start thinking positive.

Thankfully, I firmly told the voice to die in a fire and moved on.

The shoot was definitely an interesting experience. I was a background character in a commercial for a local casino. Myself and about twenty others were escorted onto the gaming floor, where we pretended to be having the time of our lives playing slots. I learned that during these kinds of shoots, you spend the majority of your time standing around, talking. Or sitting. The shoot lasted nine hours both days, and I'm pretty sure I only "worked" for around two hours.

Clearly I need to do more of this acting thing.

The best part, I think, was the food. By Odin's armpit, they feed you well. The buffet alone was worth the trip and the time. Between that and all the snacks, I probably gained twenty pounds. At least.