Do you ever get the feeling that someone is looking at you and silently following a comedic interlude inside their head, in which you are the buffoonish lead act? I do. I don't get that feeling nearly as much as I used to, but I still occasionally want to leap onto the counter (or table, or chair) and burst into my Pesci imitation. "What? Do I fucking amuse you? What am I? A clown? Huh? You seem like you're having a grand old motherfucking time, there, laughing at my expense. No, that's cool. If I amuse you, that's just fucking dandy. But maybe you should pay me for being the clown act. Because I really wanna know: am I just a clown, here, goose-stepping around strictly for your motherfucking amusement?! Answer me, Henry!"
Okay. So I wouldn't call the person Henry...unless, of course, his name really was Henry.
[Henry is Henry for the Henry Hill in the movie Goodfellas, based off of the book Wiseguys, written by Henry Hill, a former member of a New York-based Mafioso Family to which he turned the screws and sang like a yellow parrot.]
I bring this up because earlier tonight I went to the late-night liquor store to procure a pack of smokes. It was late, so I just threw on some brown slippers and, wearing my cobalt-blue pajama bottoms and a green sweater (and a knit hat and a brown leather jacket) I stepped carefully into the car and drove the block or three down the road. The kid in the store was sitting over by the cases of beer, talking to his buddy with the heavy eyelids, and when I walked in, he looked up and started towards the counter.
"How you doin'?" he asked, pleasantly enough, as I walked to the counter.
I said, hey, what's up, man, and something in his face changed. He went from open and ready to sell me my cigarettes to, in my opinion, tense and guarded. I asked for a "pack of American Spirits, blue," and he walked over to the cigarette section and grabbed my pack and brought it back to the register.
"That'll be [price redacted], sir," he said, all professional, now. As I gave him the money, I glanced up at him and saw him looking over at his friend and smirking. I've seen the look before. It's annoying. What the fuck about me is so gosh damned amusing, you son-of-a-pup?! Is it the slippers?! Get over it.
Anyway. I'm tired now. It'll be another night of short shitty sleep. I just felt the urge to relay this story to the masses. Why? Who knows. It just bugs the everlovin' shit out of me to be laughed at, or mocked, in any way. I'm pretty sensitive; it's a character flaw. Maybe I need to grow thicker skin. Maybe I need to sprout a duck's ass and just let the slights roll off the back like so much water. Whatever.
Current mood: Annoyed.