Fifty Shades Of Storytime
I’m at an in-person story telling event. I survey the partially filled-in crowd and assess who to inconvenience with my presence next to them. It’s a thinner crowd in the back, and I want a seat on the outside, preferably for an easy exit. It’s not that I’m planning to leave, but I like the option not to be boxed in by other people if I choose to get up and mill about the story cabin.
My eyes go back and forth, and I pace the area like someone deciding on a significant thing in my life. It’s all about how energy is expended in my life. I’m an autistic, trans, anxious, and clinically depressed introvert who seems to everyone else so much fun. Still, I constantly need time to stare at a wall and think about my existence to refuel after my interactions in the wilds of this city.
I fall back on an individual sitting outside with a free row behind him. He nods his head at me with a drink in hand. When I see it, I know we just initiated a conversation, and I wonder if I can get off just nodding without an exchange.
“Yeah, ya know, don’t mind me. Just trying to decide where the fuck I’m sitting.”
“I get that, and I always choose the outside seat.”
I bring out my pointer finger and nod viciously at him.
“Shit, yeah! Me too, easy to exit, easier to maneuver around people.”
“Well, you can sit next to me,” he offers.
I survey the area again. The back row is still open with that glorious exit seat being honest, but I don’t mind a pointless conversation before things get started with the actual event.
“Okay, you seem to me like your my type of people to talk to.”
“Yeah, I’m waiting for a friend, but she’s probably stoned right now.”
I laugh and position myself precariously on the chair.
“Who isn’t stoned in this city? I mean, come on.”
“Are you stoned or want to get stoned?”
I shake my head no and chuckle to myself. I’m the one person who has never been stoned and doesn’t want to get stoned; whiskey is the devil I worship. I’m still open to it again…