Be a critic

One time I got asked to participate in a stand up comedy open mic. Got told that I'm fun and charming, that my stories, or at least the way I tell them, are entertaining. 

All that being said, it didn't come off as something too difficult at the moment. I mean, I do have a sence of humour - and a marvelous one, especially if you catch me on a 'wave' or in a mood. Nah, I make people laugh, I do those fun little bits, I have the snarkiest of remarks in all the right places and, quite frankly, I'm fun to be around. I don't have a problem with my sense of humour. 

I do have, however, a problem with my sense of self. Problem which lies inherently with the fact that I don't find the world funny. I find it absurd, I find it moronic, I find it cruel and cold, or beautiful and nice (mostly depending on the amounts of caffeine inserted), but not funny.

Problem is with my sense of self. Problem lies inherently with the fact that I don't find the world funny. I find it absurd, I find it moronic, I find it cruel and cold, or beautiful and nice (mostly depending on the amounts of caffeine inserted), but not funny. Therefore, I had to start thinking (always a trip, by the way). And given the fact that I'm equal parts bitter and salty, the solution was just as toxic as you're thinking - I will make fun of things.

And what's the best thing you can make fun of, if not yourself? Alright, lemme paint you a picture. I was born in a moronically small town - two people and their cow type of small, but we had to move out and we got to the Big City. Fast forward, there I am, at the ripe old age of sixteen, back in my hometown for some part of the summer vacation. The Big City Girl. The one who knows Everything. The one who has it All and who has Seen it All. The master critic of anyone and anything that was daring to be even thinking about stepping out of my narrow point of view (maybe if I was smart enough to lose the emo haircut, I would actually be able to see my own ass, but here we are). 

And here I am, in this small town Cafe-restaurant. I would say that it was one star, but that would imply that it had any stars and, mind you, my hometown is famous for two things, one of which is people getting food poisoning there. 

But here I am. With my off brand cheap makeup that has now led me to have a five-step skincare routine so I can fix the damage that I have caused, with hair that has been dyed in the most horrendous shade of red, that has been both cut and styled by me (and it showed), with my band T-shirt and slim cigarettes, owning the world.. and ordering a latte. 

Now, the waitress looks me up and down (definitely because I'm interesting and not because I look like the love child between a Hottopic model and a hooker) and writes down my order. I light up a cigarette with my superiority (the lighter is merely an instrument so the mortals don't feel overwhelmed) and I take a few selfies while she comes back. 

And she does. Kind of panicked, rather uneasy. (as she should, after all, she is in the presence of a somewhat royalty) She leans forward, with big, doggy eyes, and asks me "You asked for a latte.. That's like a coffee with milk, right?" 

I'm stunned. She is stunned. I gasp. She gasps. I explain what a latte is in the most pretentious and condescending way possible. She brings me a coffee with a lot of milk in a water glass. Straw included. Possibly spit. I drink my make-shift latte, I smoke my expensive slim cigarettes and I am somewhere between disturbed and amused by this peasant's lack of basic etiquette, much needed for my existence. I write a Facebook post. I tell my friends. I laugh. I'm posh. 

Now, fast forward, here I am today. Still critiquing everything and everyone, especially myself. Back to smoking slim cigarettes, and between now and then, I've been to a hairdresser a total of three times - for my prom, for my wedding and because I felt girly one time. ''But, Yoana, what was the point of us reading all that rambling?'' you might be asking yourself. And, if you weren't, I'd be truly concerned. 

Well, the point is that, when I look back to that particular story, I'm ashamed. I feel kind of bad - that poor girl was probably trying to make some money and had concerns a bit more important than my pretences. (I do work in customer service now myself, so this contributed to my evolution a bit). What allowed me, however, to develop this way of thinking, is the fact that I am a horrible ,self-critiquing monster. And if I wasn't, I wouldn't get this far. And, I mean, I know, it hurts and all that, but what doesn't? I can either be in pain and stupid, or in pain and moving.. I believe that the choice is rather obvious. 

So.. Be a critic. lose that crap that everyone is good and that you're doing enough and/or that you're special. They're not, you're not and you're most definitely not. No, do critique yourself. Strip yourself from all kinds or forms of dignity and put your raw broken soul outside in the cold world, just to see how far is it going to take you, how far can you take it.  And when you come back, damaged, but alive, stroke a bit the ego that you tried to destroy - after all, you did come back alive. Take a good laugh of whatever you used to be, be a little embarrassed even... And then do it all over again. 

And me? I'm just gonna sit back and take my coffee black. With a splash of milk, just to make it interesting.