My brain’s first response to pretty much anyone trying to start a conversation with me is sarcasm. Guaranteed. Doesn’t matter who you are or what you look like. NO ONE IS SAFE. For some reason, my mind doesn’t seem to think that I need or want friends. Someone is probably going to diagnose me with a multiple personality disorder because of this post, but I’m fairly confident that is not the case. Let me ‘splain it to you.
Sarcastic humour is my defense/coping mechanism, and also my default setting.
I was that awkward girl in the corner for most of high school. My close friends would describe me as psychotic and outlandish, but if you didn’t really know me you’d probably assume I was mute. The realization that I could actually be kind of funny was what landed me an acceptable social life for a teenage girl. If I could make people laugh, they’d be too distracted to laugh AT me. Right?! Logic. So I started talking and –GASP– making more than one friend at a time.
Fast forward to when I moved to Toronto and was like, “Oh fuck. I’ve got to do this whole making friends thing again?” – Introducing *drum roll please* ALCOHOL. Holy shit, guys. I am a fountain of sarcastic criticisms and witty observations after a few beers and a RedBull, all delivered with a confidence that escapes me at every other moment in my life.
Now this isn’t any kind of miraculous discovery or fluke solution that works for me alone. Self-medication with drugs and/or alcohol seems to be the only therapy of choice for most Toronto dwellers. But for me, it seemed like the magical solution to all of my anxiety driven problems. And it worked for a long damn time. Most of my current friends were collected while I was at least half-drunk off my ass. (Hi, pals! Love yous!) Disclaimer: Luckily I seem able to maintain a certain level of bitchy charm after I’ve spent a boozy night with a new group so I’ve been able to carry on those friendships while sober. I know! Skills, right.
Here’s my problem though. (Bet you were hoping this would be the one time my blog wasn’t a long-winded, self-indulgent complaint. EAT MY SHORTS. It’s my blog and I’ll whine if I want to!). I’m generally not wasted when dropping my kid off at school or hanging out at some child’s birthday party. Also, I’ve been told it’s not a good idea to drink while pregnant and surprise! I am. Bye-bye liquid charm, hello awkward girl in the corner – the seven year later edition. Apparently I became so reliant on the confidence gained from drinking that I forgot how to turn on my previously discovered pizzaz. On the positive side, I’m getting a lot of reading done and I’ve started to write again…
So, for now, my new wireless keyboard is my best friend and I’m hiding out on the Internet; practising my side-splitting anecdotes and cynical observations until I’m titillating with sobriety. Or until this baby pops out and I can get back to a mimosa-fueled charisma. You know, either or.