Notes on Hans

Weird. But just the right amount. Enough to be interesting while circling the rim of creepy.


Notes on creative insecurity

I walked in 34 minutes late, only to realize I was 26 minutes early. Immediately reaching for my beacon of security, I call E. He’s on his way, he says. He’d had to get a haircut. He doesn’t need to explain. I immediately know why. Who are these people? They market themselves as misfits, but I have never felt so out of place. Or maybe somewhere over the past few years, I became normal without realizing it. They know each other well, but I know no one. I’m desperate for a smile, some validation. I see a familiar face and wave, vigorously. Too vigororusly. I can only assume the faint flicker of fingers was accompanied by a smile because, in the dim glow of the cafe, the left side of her lip twitched almost imperceptibly. Does it count if I want to be a misfit? And doesn’t that in itself discount their right to claim the word? So I mirror their disinterest. I pull out my laptop. The internet doesn’t work. No problem, I’ll simply distract myself with food. I’m a successful millenial with a decent bank account, afterall. I forget I am lactose intolerant and wolf down a brownie. The sick feeling in my stomach masks the twisted sense of insecurity I feel, being a room where everyone is most certainly cooler than me. I though I was past this. I want to be back in my room, binge watching stand up comedy on Netflix and dreaming my way to world domination. But I stay, and I listen and I leave.