I went to a party for gay black people on Friday night. Everyone was so nice to me, but I still felt like a sore thumb.
(Willow: But do they really? Stick out? I mean, have you ever seen a thumb and thought, “Whoa, that baby is sore”?
Xander: You have too many thoughts.)
Later on I called the Moms to tell her of my evening’s adventures, as I like to do whenever I have adventures of any kind, and to describe my stick-outy feelings.
“Then you might want to consider taking assignments that are more in your comfort zone,” she said tactfully, all the while thinking to herself, My God, I gave birth to a sore thumb.
“My comfort zone sort of ends with my apartment walls, though,” I said.
Also, I spent the hour before the party trying to rewrite Hamlet using only palindromes, so I dunno. I don’t think I’m the sort who will ever be comfortable with any people.
Act I, Scene 2:
Claudius: So sad?
Hamlet: Da.
Gertrude: S.O.S.!
Hamlet (sarcastically): Mom. “Dad.”
Exit Hamlet