Awkward things.

Truman Syndrome (Or Reason No. 5,340,265 Why I Should Not Be Allowed Outside)

on March 1, 2014


Have you ever seen the Truman Show? Obviously you can’t answer me, so I’m going to assume that you’ve either said yes, and all is well and good, or you’ve said no and run off to watch it right away so you can understand this blog post and the odd tangent it already seems to be taking. In both cases, well done, you are awesome, stickers and bubbles and all the balloons for you! Ok, so now we’re up to speed, I can continue…

So because I am mildly delusional and have a tendency of putting a wildly positive spin on things, (which may involve llamas, smiley faces or copious amounts of forever-lasting glitter) I decided a while ago that I have my own TV show and the world is watching me go about my life. I decided this, not because I go on epic quests to deliver magic jewellery to scary places that one does not simply walk into, or because I skydive into laser shark pits whilst wearing a meat costume for shiggles, or even because I got up the duff at ten years old with a nun’s pet panda’s alien dog baby. My life is actually pretty tame; well, apart from that time I defeated Voldemort and that moody dude took all the credit. I decided this because people look at me. A lot.

I recently discovered that this was an actual thing, (epically named Truman Syndrome) and I AM psychologically tarnished, rather than famous. But until I unearthed the evidence of my upset mind, I thought that I was onto something. You see, I might not be Steve Irwin or Batman, but I am talented at something that doesn’t take courage or brains or heart, or anything on Dorothy’s gang’s Christmas list. I am really good at screwing up. Like, if there was a job that required me to do everything wrong, whilst refusing to ask questions and make eye-contact with strangers that I could only speak to in a series of mumbles and shrieks, I would be in, plus tips, bonuses, and a company car that probably wouldn’t work because, hey, twisted irony is my jam.

We want an example, I hear you say. How can you hear us through time and computer space, I hear you say. This is getting silly now, I hear you say. Stop it, I hear you- Ok fine. It just so happened that something deliciously terrible and TV worthy happened to me this afternoon. First you need some backstory, unless you have been watching me on TV all this time. In which case, why are you reading my blog?! Is this like some Big Brother’s Little Brother style stuff? Is Russell Brand leading a celebrity panel? Ohmygosh, I need to see this. Someone drop me a package from the sky or something. If I’m on TV send cake, if not, send me… I don’t know, sprouts or something. Anyways, so I was in Cardiff Comic Con today and had such a wondrous time. Everything was frabjous. The sky was blue, people were lovely, and life was shiny. In short, it was amazingtastical.

So, to the backstory… There’s a gentleman that works in a shop in Cardiff who is super cool, who totally needs to be my friend. I can tell this by his t-shirt collection, his beard, his sarcastic/grumpy/confusingly pleasant manner and also because I just know, alright? Last year I saw him at Comic Con and, being the shy person that I am in life outside the internets, I didn’t speak to him. I was so annoyed at myself because it was the perfect opportunity. We had obviously common interests, I had a better t-shirt than him and good vibes penetrated the air like Nag Champa. It would have been awesome, I’m sure, and we would have lived happily ever after, referring to Benedict Cumberbatch as Bumperstump Cabbagepatch and complaining loudly about the way that the TV series of Game of Thrones veers wildly from the already perfectly perfect in every way books. Alas, I left to buy vegan carrot cake and berate myself.

Today I was reminiscing, as one does when one screws up. And, as I was walking down the street, (in Cardiff, which is a big city, with, Wikipedia tells me, almost 325,000 peeps as of 2001, plus the zillions of awesome folks that rocked up just to meet Hodor. So lots of people, OK? LOTS.) I was reminding my friend of last year’s mistake and saying that if I see him again this year, I have to talk to him, because he’s sooo awesome, and sooo cool, and his t-shirts are AMAZING*. It was very clear who I was talking about. I mentioned his shop name, a brief description and, I’m pretty sure, his hair colour. I am very descriptive alongside the gushy, an extra talent there. Anyway, in real life, where I was, today, I turned around mid-fan-girl-gasm and… HE WAS BEHIND ME.

I died. I am dead now. I am speaking to you from beyond the grave in order to explain the dangers of being a freaking social train wreck. It’s bad guys, don’t do it, just don’t. The high is not worth the sudden death when the ground falls away and, look, there’s Australia, and you’ve been beaten to death by a kangaroo, because even they think you’re a massive loser. If you’re expecting a neatly bundled story with a beginning, middle and end that has me waking up because it’s all been a dream, you’ve come to the wrong place. I specialise in randomness, confusing moral overtones and self-flagellation. I’m still pretty sure that I’m famous, and if not, I totally should be, because my life is pure comedy. Also, if you’re Jerry Springer give me a call because I’m not sure that this alien dog baby is mine… Dun, dun, duuuuuuuuun!


*General fawning fan-girlery. Imagine this guy is Jason Momoa. A ginger Jason Momoa with a collection of geek shirts that would make Sheldon Cooper lick his (probably Converse) shoes. Uh huh.


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