I thought the hardest part of seeing a play is resisting the urge to eat snacks. Theater people be mad snobby. Simply crossings your legs can lead to passive-aggressive cut eyes. They don’t know your life and they don’t care whether your leg is cramping.
Created on St. Maarten. Based in Chicago. Onicia Muller (@OniciaMuller) writes, says funny things, and enjoys hanging with creative minds. Originally published in The Daily Herald's Weekender, Just Being Funny is a weekly reflection where Onicia laughs at life.
Here’s the situation: it's the weekend and I want to have fun, but I have to see my professor’s play. I didn’t have to, but I wanted to know if they could write. Like, how dare they take thousands of my dollars and judge my writing when they low key ain’t all that good?
I’m going to have my period. Most women just need to pop a Midol so they can keep it pimpin’. For me, I need to find shelter near a bathroom because it’s countdown to my monthly exorcism.
Because we’d already purchased tickets, plan A was to sit at the end of the row and just step out if I needed to. Real simple, right? Nah!
It turns out that this is a storefront theater. Stepping out would most certainly lead to interrupting the play. We’ve already established that theater snobs don’t even want you to breathe! I didn’t need no staffer telling my professor I interrupted his performance.
More complications. The space was set up so that seating surrounded the performance area. This meant that if I wanted to exit, I had to walk through the performance! Then, I open the playbill and read “no intermission”. No intermission?!
Plan B. After settling into our seats, I spot a trash bin. Sure, there’s one guy between me and the bin, but that’s small things. I’m queasy and my bra is too tight. I unbutton my pants to make space for what is essentially the menstrual demon waging war on my innards.
I do that trick girls do with our bras. Then, I rest my purse on my lap, slip my bra from underneath my shirt, and slide into my purse. Booya! Smooth criminal. I momentarily forget it’s countdown to demon expelling.
About thirty minutes into the play, my saliva increases. I’m about to puke.
Plan C! See, although the set is a cardboard kitchen – painted white with black trimming – the black trash bin doesn’t fit the kitchen motif. Now I doubt whether this was a blessing from the universe or a prop from Diablo.
Decision: swallow the bile or fill my cheeks. If I swallow, I might vomit. There’s a chance that swallowing might be the one time I clip the right wire and defuse the bomb. However, experience tells me otherwise.
I hold my spit for 45 minutes. I am woozy. As pre-puke is about to escape my lips, an actor retrieves a secret prop from the trash. What?! I almost puked all over the props. That’s way worse than munching on Doritos.
Then I did something that I wish on a few of my enemies: I swallowed my pre-puke. Thankfully, I tossed my cookies during the taxi ride back home.
I’m going to have my period. Most women just need to pop a Midol so they can keep it pimpin’. For me, I need to find shelter near a bathroom because it’s countdown to my monthly exorcism.
Because we’d already purchased tickets, plan A was to sit at the end of the row and just step out if I needed to. Real simple, right? Nah!
It turns out that this is a storefront theater. Stepping out would most certainly lead to interrupting the play. We’ve already established that theater snobs don’t even want you to breathe! I didn’t need no staffer telling my professor I interrupted his performance.
More complications. The space was set up so that seating surrounded the performance area. This meant that if I wanted to exit, I had to walk through the performance! Then, I open the playbill and read “no intermission”. No intermission?!
Plan B. After settling into our seats, I spot a trash bin. Sure, there’s one guy between me and the bin, but that’s small things. I’m queasy and my bra is too tight. I unbutton my pants to make space for what is essentially the menstrual demon waging war on my innards.
I do that trick girls do with our bras. Then, I rest my purse on my lap, slip my bra from underneath my shirt, and slide into my purse. Booya! Smooth criminal. I momentarily forget it’s countdown to demon expelling.
About thirty minutes into the play, my saliva increases. I’m about to puke.
Plan C! See, although the set is a cardboard kitchen – painted white with black trimming – the black trash bin doesn’t fit the kitchen motif. Now I doubt whether this was a blessing from the universe or a prop from Diablo.
Decision: swallow the bile or fill my cheeks. If I swallow, I might vomit. There’s a chance that swallowing might be the one time I clip the right wire and defuse the bomb. However, experience tells me otherwise.
I hold my spit for 45 minutes. I am woozy. As pre-puke is about to escape my lips, an actor retrieves a secret prop from the trash. What?! I almost puked all over the props. That’s way worse than munching on Doritos.
Then I did something that I wish on a few of my enemies: I swallowed my pre-puke. Thankfully, I tossed my cookies during the taxi ride back home.
Created on St. Maarten. Based in Chicago. Onicia Muller (@OniciaMuller) writes, says funny things, and enjoys hanging with creative minds. Originally published in The Daily Herald's Weekender, Just Being Funny is a weekly reflection where Onicia laughs at life.