When I Have Fans My Neurosis Will Be Validated

Do you recognize me? I hope not. I have made my best efforts to go incognito to our neighborhood restaurant. Yes, I know I come here several times a month—I try to switch it up so you won’t know me, but unfortunately I really appreciate this particular menu.

Why am I so paranoid? What exactly am I donning sweatpants and a hoodie to hide from? When is the last time I washed my hair, and who is that well-dressed and groomed person that looks vaguely like me and also seems to live in my building?

Am I actually famous and chased by paparazzi?

The answer, my friends, is no(t yet). And why would such a nervous Nelly aspire to such prominence when she doesn’t even want to make eye contact with the waiter? Why would this native New Yorker with her fuck-you shell to coat her shy insides even consider such a public career as acting?

Because when I have fans, my neurosis will be validated. After all these years of therapy, I am still neurotic. That’s not heading out any time soon. So as a hallucinatory person may pull up a chair and cut cake for their imaginary friend, so shall I court my audience in my hobo outfit. So shall I.