“A 20-something surrounded by people who have their shit together.”
Okay, weird things happen to everyone. Everyone. I just like observing my own weird, little coincidences then stressing out and inducing anxiety hours later…and finding a way to display these emotions in the least annoying way possible to my friends. It’s the Lena Dunham complex. And yes, sometimes, I have the moment of Truman Show delusion of, “Shiiiiiiit, this isn’t real life.”
I’ve always thrown this idea around that those situations can be condensed into some title cleverly channeling something along the lines of “Emotions of a Fictional Life” because the majority of my life is spent pandering over things and people whom I convince myself I can never achieve or be with.
The tagline? “A 20-something surrounded by people who have their shit together. She doesn’t quite know who she is yet, but that’s totally okay (Shout-out to Chris Gethard to that perfect simple piece of advice). Watch as this naturally indecisive enthusiast tries to balance life. And people.” And of course it sounds like every stereotypical 20-something piece.
But with the self-confidence demolished and dignity tested, I could work on a storyboard to this sitcom of my life. I’m thinking many points in this next spiel could jumpstart at least a season’s worth of story arcs.
The protagonist—narcissistically based upon myself—deals with life…like walking around Disneyland with a Stewart/Colbert presidential campaign button pinned to her sweater (so congrats if you managed to stay friends with her this long).
She’d go through her morning thinking, “How many friends would I lose if I made it clear I want to voluntarily watch Superbabies 2: Baby Geniuses?”
Well, now her coffee just exploded in the microwave and she would attempt to use horchata for creamer.
She’d be the one to be stuck behind three wannabe Holden Caulfield’s discussing Buddhism, secretly entranced by their words.
Fueled by many days of running on three hours of sleep, she would start to blame most of the worlds problems on the disappearance of Jonathan Taylor Thomas.
She’d be waiting for contact from the next novelist to chronicle this epic interaction story she’s got going with the fictional persona of this guy she is always running into.
One day she’d end up at a dog beach. Alone. But then at this dog beach (…alone, dog-less) she’d start thinking about the refusal to fix a tear in her jeans can be attributed to her low maintenance vs. her laziness.
Or she would be dwelling on the anxiety of who could even begin to be considered a replacement on Weekend Update or why Harry would put the wand back into the fucking tomb because that means giving someone a chance to find it—and with new advances in magic we’ll start this shit all over again.
Sometimes she would forget she knows a choreographed waltz to the Princess Diaries song and then would proceed to practice it in the privacy of her apartment.
She would want to go back in time to where her biggest concern was if she should buy Rollie Pollie Ollie Valentines Day cards, trying to block out how she only dates fictional characters in her head, or more like fictional personas of real people.
This caring albiet sometimes delusional protagonist would remind herself that “coffee” and “make out” are almost identical in American Sign Language so maybe two birds with one stone at that Starbucks later.
She’d have a friend whose best heartfelt one-liner would be, “Katherine, he doesn’t like you. Because he likes boys. And that’s always a relevant reason.”
And the tag of this Katherine-Leon-based sitcom would center around the idea that she doesn’t have emotions until 2:30 am, then she cries about everything. The typical, “Katherine, it’s 3 am, stop crying over episodes of House you’ve seen five times” because it actually is 3 am and that’s the time to do all of this. And then the end song of “Pretty in Pink” would come on the radio while she’s driving to Target to buy anything besides her reason for going to Target, and she would become a puddle of tears, eventually ending up in bed with work.
The icing on the cake? Ending up in said bed watching Louis C.K.’s “Oh My God” special, re-evaluating her life based on his own personal philosophies.
But could my life really be a sitcom? I’m one of those people who constantly worry about what’s right and accepted in any given situation.
But I’ve heard it’s narcissistic to be worried about appropriateness.