A Little Pain, A Little Panic

 Stress

If there were a way to place a microphone in my little noggin, snuggled up next to this infernally overactive brain, between the wrinkles, just adjacent to my temporal lobe, and this microphone could somehow translate the firing of synapses into language, "Terrible" is the word that would serve as notice of a barrage of the loosely cogent, barely related litany of internal arguments on the way.

Like this moment of panic when Beaker demonstrates non-flammable paper, I, too, react similarly, in times of duress. However here, it is less of a spontaneous reaction to a perfectly reasonable stimulus, and more like this scene from "His Girl Friday". 

While searching for a clip to properly encapsulate the chaos I feel roams so freely in my mind, I also realized there is a distinct lack of modern (or postmodern, I suppose) scenes of banter that I am aware of. I refuse to acknowledge anything that happens in the MCU as banter, or reminiscent of witty, with the explicit exceptions of Agatha from WandaVision, and that is because Kathryn Hahn is a wonderfully talented actress. Who could forget Ben Kingsley's car scene in Shang Chi? That's all folks. I would venture to look to Rashida Jones as one who is wise in the ways of banter, in both Parks and Rec and #blackAF, as her skills displayed in this delightfully humorous exchange with her galpal from Parks, Amy Poehler, portray. Continuing on, I then spent the next two hours searching for various comedic scenes in which banter is present, and done well, unlike this interview (in which Lily Tomlin avoids being hounded by Joan Rivers about her sexuality, and is downright vicious to someone who apparently prided themself on gossip and bringing others embarrassment and shame), or this one (again Joan attempting to, I guess, embarrass Lucille Ball of all people, and Lucille is just not. having. it., five years before her passing), I came across some koala-tea examples of banter, further down the rabbit hole I went and arrived here. Suffice to say, I am no longer stressed, readers. If I had to surmise, I would think this post is less about stress and more about how to relieve it. However, my intention is to communicate to you my very special and in no way relatable thought process while I am stressed. I shall do so by relaying my behaviors and letting you do the guesswork. 

My poor, poor roommates, who have been suffering with me for the past year, may be prone to mention the somewhat odd comments I make to myself while I'm stressed. Most notably after I have done something I deem as particularly stupid, foolish, or otherwise regrettable. 

Interior: We open, in a small bathroom. There are horrid white lights. It is a well-decorated bathroom, the main colors are orange, blue, tan. White granite tops for the sink, a comically underutilized bathroom cupboard with mirror, and a comfy orange mat rests in front of the said sink. We join our protagonist, dolefully, intensely, brushing his teeth. His feet hurt. On the other side of the stage are two individuals in a living room. They are close enough so Gaz may be heard, and aside from the occasional cocked eyebrow do not otherwise react to the events unfolding, as though they are used to it by now. 

Gaz: This is terrible. Terrible. (This line should be delivered loudly, with a mixture of confusion, anger, and relief. It does not feel good to have this talk with yourself, but it is necessary to do so, as there is no one else you trust to keep you disciplined in this way. You are your own Molly Weasley, your own Mrs. Doubtfire.)

Gaz, cont'd (while brushing his teeth with just a dry toothbrush and an ungodly amount of pent-up frustration, the lines are delivered between sections of his teeth being brushed repeatedly): Terrible, terrible. Why on god's green earth would you do this? What would ever possess you to do something like this? Who the hell do you think you are doing something like this?

Gaz, finishing the first part of an intricate routine, sets the dry toothbrush down. He then takes a flosser and begins using it while delivering the next lines. He does this methodically. Starting with the space between his top front two teeth, then moving to the right. Once he reaches the back, he starts on the bottom right side of the mouth, and goes all the way across to the left side of his jaw. He then moves up and finishes the left half of the top row of teeth, finishing in the middle again, for good measure. Lines should be delivered clearly, as he speaks while he flosses. 

Gaz (answering himself in a much, much gentler tone): Oh shush, you're fine. When do you ever have the time to do something like this. What you did wasn't even that bad. Was it ideal? Definitely not, but if you waited for everything you did to be perfect you wouldn't get anything done. Besides, you deserve to take risks, and have fun. Will they always pay off? I don't know, but you took a risk, and that's okay. 

He moves on, throwing the flosser into a small trashcan, overflowing, and then opens a jar of coconut oil. He takes out a small tea spoon from a leather bag, and stirs the oil for a bit, eyeing it meticulously to make sure there are no large clumps. He takes one full spoon into his mouth, checks the time, and begins swishing. This goes on for about 5 minutes. During this time, the conversation continues, but inaudibly, as he can't speak. Gaz waves his arms, paces in the bathroom, always looking either down at the floor while he walks, or stops in front of the mirror to glare at himself again. He examines his body, squeezing and lifting and pulling his skin in various ways in an effort to see what he might look like if this wasn't so droopy or these weren't so large. His posture slumps a bit, and his head hangs. Suddenly, he jolts upright, puts his fists on his waist, a la Wonder Woman, and gives himself an up and down look of confidence, remembering to bend his knees and hold his neck ever just so. He continues to swish as he shifts his weight to his right side, his left hand coming up to gesticulate something to himself. He shakes his head and smiles with a closed mouth. The five minutes end, and he spits into the sink. Without pause, he lifts the toothbrush to the toothpaste bottle, applies an amount, and turns it on. As he brushes, he sings. After about 3 minutes, Gaz rinses the toothbrush, spits generously into the sink, and grabs another flosser. He repeats the routine, and starts singing a bit louder. Swiftly, he opens up the cupboard under the sink, removes a bottle, and fills the cap with mouthwash. Again he swishes for five minutes. It is only here he lets himself look at his phone briefly, before returning to the mirror. This is Gaz's favorite part of the ritual. He spits once more, and smiles broadly to examine his teeth, sucking air through all over his mouth. He is never pleased with the results, but resigns himself to reality. Without looking at himself again, he flicks the light off and leaves the bathroom. 

Scene.