The mystery of "Himmmm"

Flip, thap. Flip, thap.
Flip, ^thip, thap.

Throwing the fan around isn't difficult. I've got a second one. I can juggle them now, kind of. I know how to juggle socks and tennis balls, I'm just rubbish at it. I don't know why spinning helps. Toss it up, catch it. Toss it up, bat it back into the spin, catch it on the downstroke.

Flip, ^{thip, thip,} thap.

Can't type while practicing. I need those fingers. Twenty years on the internet, and I never did learn to type one-handed.

Make your jokes now. I'll wait.

Flip, ^thip, thap.
Flip, ^{thip, thip,} thap.
Flip, ^thip, clatter.

Well, fuck. At least I don't feel bad about dropping my $1.25 folding fans under the coffee table.

I feel a little bad every time I catch it, though.

If I had any real ambition in life, I might have been Tony Stark. I absolutely would have been that fucked up, but I probably also would have been rich, successful, maybe famous. Probably not that rich, maybe that successful, and only famous among people in my field, but still.

Instead, I am sitting on a sofa in Somerville, flipping a folding fan over and over in my hand. Getting good at it. Pouring energy into figuring out how to pretend to be someone who is pretending to be someone who doesn't exist.

Flip, ^{thip, thip,} thap.

I took a look at my rehearsal sheets at the studio the other week. I've gotten myself down there once or twice a week for a full year. Aren't I supposed to feel proud of this? You're supposed to feel proud of yourself when you stick with something. I didn't even notice. I want to know where my sense of accomplishment is.

Flip, ^{thip, thip,} thap.
Flip, ^{thip, thip,} thap.

Flip, clatter.

Crawl under the table. It's a stupid prop. It's a stupid hobby. There, that's where it went.

Flip, ^{thip, thip,} thap.

I have no idea why people encourage me.