The truth of the matter is that I am freaking out about this. Getting sort of ridiculously silly, to the point where I can’t breathe kind of freaking out. I am nervous that I’m going to read too fast, too monotone, nervous that the audience isn’t going to laugh at the right parts, or that I’m going to succumb to nervous laughter over the lines I particularly like and sit there laughing like a goon over the phrase “ass-less chaps”. I am nervous that I’m going to be the first reader and that there will be boys in the audience. I am nervous that the cutest boy of all is going to be in the audience and he’s going to hate yet another of my stories, or worse, give me his patented “It’s goooood, sweetie!” line, which means that he doesn’t get it but he’s trying to be supportive. I am nervous that I’m going to have a syncopal episode and hit the floor with dramatic thud. I am nervous that my very sweet and adorable independent study professor is going to be there and I’m going to have to say the word “penis” and she’s going to get flustered in her very Dame Maggie Smith kind of way. Or Dr. Clark is going to look at me with his serious respectful face and I will immediately lose all resolve, as I do not even remotely deserve Dr. Clark’s full and rapt attention, even though he’s my advisor. And most of all, I am nervous because I have absolutely nothing to fucking wear.
I am specifically picking a more humorous story because I have an easier time making people laugh than making them think. I don’t know why that is, but so it goes. And while I know damned well that I like my story, right now, I really don’t like my story. It’s weak. It’s insipid. It’s too much like chick lit. I have no talent nor do I have even one pair of super cute jeans. If I were writing something heart wrenching and solid, I could get away with distracting people with my bosom, but with pseudo chick lit, I can’t wear a) pink, black or white, b) too much make up or jewelry, c) something businessy, because that’s trying too hard, d) something that makes me look like a prostitute or e) basically anything in my wardrobe, because I just described everything I own.
I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll just e-mail the coordinator a pod cast of me reading the story. That would actually resolve all of this. My iPod’s butt never looks big, regardless of what it wears.
Bitch.