I get wings with friends as often as I can. Last Tuesday, I had wings with my good friend Dan, a fellow Atlanta comic.
We did the friend wing thing at Graveyard. I previously gave them a mediocre review, which I still stand by. It’s a great deal to get 10 wings for $4.50~. I went for Zombie Sauce, which is a much better sauce choice than Dan’s dismal White Trash BBQ.
I spotted a party about to leave a table and politely asked them if Dan and I could use the other end of the long table. They were super sweet and volunteered the entire table since their check had just come.
Two bros near me, turned to me with a sheer look of disgust and said, “We were wanting that table!”
I sugar-sweetly said, ” Well you should have asked!” As I took my seat, flipped my hair and offered them the other end of the table but it wasn’t good enough for them.
The bros proceeded to stand directly behind us to talk about the conversation Dan and I were having (since we were talking shop).
More than anything, I wanted to punch their little entitled faces. But, I just enjoyed my wings and my time with Dan…trying to keep my burning ears directed to my friend.
Those bros who were pissed about the table, put me back to when I was an adolescent who was deeply misunderstood, by parents and peers. I don’t mean to lump people together but whenever I come in contact with people who love to belittle and cause drama, I get a pit in my stomach.
I have said this before on stage but it’s like former “popular” children grow up to be the nastiest people, and they can somehow smell the dork on me.
As an adolescent, I cared way too much about what those people thought about me. The result was years of bullying and depression.
I don’t let those kinds of people get to me, it just annoys me more than anything now. I know there are other people who grew up like me: unable to communicate with peers, interests that didn’t align with what was ~cool~, and a limited budget for cool clothes. Us former dorks deserve to eat wings and be proud to be ourselves. We are not alone in our nerdy, dorky, misunderstood PTSD.
Annie Lockwood 