I don't date improvisors. Anymore. It is my thought, that Improvisors, particularlly of the male persuasion, are sick, self-centered individuals. These are the boys that got picked on in High School, while playing D & D, collecting Spawn action figures, jacking off to Cameron Diaz in the Mask...they move to New York, wanting to prove a point, showing all the basketball-playing douchebags of the world, that they overcame the mistreatment and are so much cooler than you and I. They find a world that accepts them, and allows them to foster their nerditude and all around geekery. It makes them braver, stronger, confidant - they are the Peter Parker's of this world.
The acceptance goes straight to their penis, and they are infalliable. They move to Brooklyn & Queens, because when you're a "real performer" you can't possibly afford to live in Manhattan. Unless, your income is being subsidized my Mummy & Daddy. Then they decide to live in Brooklyn & Queens because it gives the appearance of having character and convictions. They are ironic; they wear hightops - not because they're back in style, but because they are still a child, desperatly clinging to 1986. They meet stupid fan girls, and even dumber performers, all looking for acceptance in their own right. I am a dumb performer.
We flirt, drink, and screw. It makes things delightfully awkward. We do scenes together, with so much sexual tension, we need the Cutlery Barn on speed-dial. That is it. We might date, but stupid Improv boys are busy chasing rainbows, kissing ass to teachers. You call it "networking". I call it "mutuus penis combibo" or mutual blow jobs of the mind. You're so self-absorbed, us stupid girls grow tired of these games. We settle for a drunk invesment banker, or a coked-out NYU student - granted we have nothing in common, but they can fuck for hours.
Personally, I have distanced myself from the Improv world. I don't want to be a dumb performer. I know where I want to go, and I feel Improv isn't that place. It is not my Xanadu. I cannot perform, or enjoy an evening of Improv anymore, knowing so and so is there, and he may try and speak to me. It is an evening consisting of walking on eggshells. If he speaks to me, he'll remind me how good he's doing in his little universe, how happy he is with his amazing group of friends. And I hate him for that. And then we make out a little. And then I come home, and write about it.
In five or ten years, where will I be? I know where I'd like to be, and it involves an apartment in the 60's and Lexington, and a degree. Where will the Improv boys be? Probably still at Triple Crown, drinking Stella. Boys, prove me wrong - just don't call me.
And to address the issue of last night, I think it was there was a mutual level of disinterest. Although pleasing to the eyes, I just don't want to open that can of PBR again. And he probably couldn't handle my rapid mood swings and my insatiable appetite for dick. It's been know to happen.
Thank you, theatre friend, for trying. I love you for it. Let's pick someone from another medium next time, like pantomime.
1 comment:
That's a really cute mime
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