the joy of song

so i've noticed i have this bad habit of seeing something be awesome, and immediately thinking that i, too, can be that awesome. i blame this on the fact that i daydream uncontrollably roughly 93% of the time that i am awake. just about all stimuli will trigger it. if i'm watching roller derby, i fantasize about being really fast on skates. if i'm watching pro wrestling, i believe i have what it takes to be a champion. and so on. these self-inflated thoughts bounce around tirelessly in my own head, however, i have learned to keep them to myself over time, as they are 100% false.

a few weeks ago, i had seen buzz about a website i had never heard of called "hyperbole and a half." i'm not much for reading, but the contents of this mysterious site were being hailed as "adorable" and "hilarious" among other generally positive adjectives. i was intrigued enough that it stuck in the random fact gizzard of my brain, and eventually, when the content filter was down at work, i decided to explore.






then my boss came in the room.



despite my time on the site being cut short, i was pleasantly surprised to find the rumors true. hyperbole and a half had made me giggle and snort using semi-fancy words to create narratives charmingly accented with crappy child-like illustrations. something about it was fun. and as i explored a little more from my couch at home later that day, i came to a predictable realization.




this notion usually passes as soon as i put pants on. unfortunately, this was a special case. normally, my delusions are about myself excelling at something that i do not have easy access to. the internet just happens to be the perfect forum for assclowns who think they have good ideas to share them, and my home is infested with internets. destiny or doom, it was gonna happen.

i set to work immediately, racking my brain for something to write about and doodling in an attempt to stumble on some inspiration. after several seconds, i realized that even terrible illustrations required way too much effort and quit the whole thing.

despite that, i found myself encouraged one doodle at a time by hyperbole and a half, and soon enough, a story began taking shape around them. and that story is about singing.

i behave strangely when it comes to singing. i do it constantly. at home, in the car, in the shower... it's loud and it's bad. except when i think people can hear me. in those situations, not only do i refuse to sing, but i'm profoundly horrified if i believe someone has heard me. it's illogical and inexplicable. what doesn't help the situation is that i can't remember myself singing in public ever having a positive result.

perhaps the best thing i can do is try to show what goes on in my head when caught singing. it is one of my greatest fears, yet it probably happens more often than i know. at any given time, i may be singing michael jackson's "smooth criminal" absurdly loud, completely oblivious to the fact that i am passing an open window where any number of people may be within earshot.





at this point, i believe i would be rightfully embarrassed. but what should be embarrassment feels more like this.





some may think that singing around people i'm more familiar with would be less traumatic to my hyper-sensitive ego. not necessarily. in fact, in cases of surprise, the opposite is true, as illustrated by the time i butchered bo burnham's "new math" in the shower.





i forgot i gave dad a key.

the only audience i can really perform for is animals. they don't judge talent, they only seem to care for my well-being when i attempt an axl rose rock scream. and it's reassuring to know that no matter how bad i am, they will never hold it against me.

the day my cat needed to go to the vet, she was very distraught and noisy.




there wasn't anything i could do about the cage or weird imbalancing car motion. she needed a distraction, and the best thing i could think of was a nice sappy song that i could never get away with singing to anyone else.



i didn't know the words, but i gave it my best shot.