Pudgy
No matter how much truth there might be to the utter ridiculousness of ones audience, or how much their embarrassing (to you) appearance helps alleviate some of that fear and anxiety you are slave to and reminded of each morning in your toothpaste crusted bathroom mirror, talking shit only lets off a few puffs of steam, except for that one puff. That puffed up chest does not deflate. It remains prominent, filling its role as your prop. Your faux confidence. A bit of extra stuffing so that the “I’m a man” costume you wear fits just right.
However, criticizing the audience or posting photos of them trying to prove that you’re funny; that you have a dry wit you’re convinced only someone (else) with a high IQ could appreciate…it only makes you look like an ingrate hater. It also most definitely guarantees that next time…you (again) will not be headlining. Not there amongst pudgy people. Not there amongst perhaps the one fan who could bring you to the toned, multi-toned hip people.
But then again, you’d find fault in them too. In the toothpaste crusted bathroom mirror. It’s a miserable (un)merry-go round existence and one you clearly aren’t getting off of soon.
