I sang at an open mic night in a coffee shop two weeks ago. It was the first time I sang something I wrote for an audience. I’ve sung other songs for people, and played my ukulele for fun with friends, but never have I sung something just for me for them.
Because I wrote a song for myself. A bit of a pathetic sobbing song, a poem in honor of the way a guy made my heart flutter in the hours and days after we met, from the moment he asked for my number and I was still hopefully awaiting his call.
It went “well”. Better than well. I mean, the first night after playing for the audience and getting a warm applause, I was pumped. I ecstatically skipped around my house and for a moment life wasn’t focused on whether or not the aforementioned boy would call.
Then I realized that this boy really was not going to call me. At this point things declined. I had a week until the next open mic night. That gave me seven nights of loneliness and time with my thoughts and without the positive human interaction an audience provided. I wrote two more songs.
Two weeks seemed enough to forget about the boy, or at least for the pain of his memory to be weak enough to no longer inspire me, so by week three I had no more music. That was yesterday. I didn’t go to the open mic night.
I entertain myself with the notion that maybe someone there noticed my absence, maybe they missed the girl on ukulele who played humorous songs about unrequited love and drank sweet and spicy good earth tea. But that’s unlikely. It’s hard to believe that you’re really as memorable as you want to be.
Now I guess I’ll have to work on another song, my aunt suggested one about recovering from serious illnesses. I think that’d be too dark. Especially for my ukulele. But I have to think of something, I only have a week until my next chance at human interaction arrives.
Oh, and hello reader. I’ve tried to avoid acknowledging your existence. It’s very difficult to believe you’re there, you’ll probably be gone in a moment anyway. I don’t know what this blog is, reader, but I kind of have to write something and I can’t compose it on my old account, because my mom reads that one. And there are some things you just don’t want your mom to read and then bring up the next day at dinner. Like every aspect of your social and nonsocial life.