You're Never Weird on the Internet (Almost)

by Felicia Day

  I don’t think the attraction disappeared for him as instantaneously as it did for me, so I had to navigate the dance of trying to reframe our relationship as friends and not phone flirt mates before my other courtier, Tyler, got finished being yelled at upstairs by a very angry New Jersey woman. (By the way, her accent was NOT exotic.)

  “How’s your cat doing?”

  “Good! I can’t believe I’m seeing you in person. You’re so prett . . .”

  “Look over there! A washer-dryer combo! Cool!”

  I tried to throw the conversation to the group as a whole, but at a certain point, the whole vibe in the basement got SUPER stilted. No one felt comfortable enough to share personal information. We’d followed a mad impulse to connect in person, and the experience was NOT equaling the anticipation we felt. I think we all had completely different ideas of one another in our heads. Also, a few of us were CHILDREN, and I don’t think that sunk in over the computer monitors as well as it did in real life. We tried to circle safe topics like, “Can you believe what Periwinkle Dragon said about Feather Dragon on the forum last week . . .” but after that, everything trailed off into tense pauses. It was extremely uncomfortable.

  For once in my life, I can say, “Thank goodness my mom was there!” She has a talent for prompting inappropriate conversations with strangers. As soon as she took charge, we learned about people’s divorces, sexual orientation, and we were just getting into drug use confessions and my yelling, “Mom!” really loud when Tyler came downstairs and suggested we “Go out for a walk and a bite to eat.”

  Translation: His mom was booting the weirdos.

  The group moved down to the Jersey boardwalk, which is lovely and has excellent taffy, and we made a beeline for the video game arcade, where all the Dragons proceeded to play separately from each other for another two and a half hours, only stopping for a short break to get hot dogs. I spent most of my time with Camouflage (damnit, Tyler!) and tried to salvage the dream of finding my true love in New Jersey.

  And, try as I might, it just didn’t work. Yes, he was smart and cute in person and clearly hadn’t doctored his photos because there was still that unibrow, but the whole package was like seeing a Tiffany box from afar and being so psyched and then getting up close and realizing it’s a pack of gum from the 99-cent store. There’s an indefinable “something” you have with another person to get your reproductive organs all flame-y, and it just wasn’t there with any of the Dragons. I’d had a big crush on Tyler before, but in retrospect, I think it was only because he gave good phone voice.

  Getting the romance question out of the way was a relief. Now I could actually have fun! Henry, Tyler, and I proceeded to beat the crap out of each other at Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat. We had an awesome, platonic time together, and I was prepared to leave happy knowing I would still have two great friends online, and I could let my heart move on to other places.

  And then my mom jumped in.

  She had always been a BIG Tyler fan and decided to get her pompoms out.

  “Isn’t he sweet? His mom’s a bitch, but he’s so cute.”

  “He’s okay, Mom. So is his mom.” His mom wasn’t okay—what little I saw of her reminded me of a character from The Godfather, but I didn’t want to get judge-y.

  “You two look so good together, his eyes are pretty. You need to get away from the group. Go off alone together! I’ll distract Henry.”

  “What? No, I’m fine!”

  “We’re leaving in the morning, Felicia. Go down to the beach with him alone!”

  “No! That’s weird! Why?”

  “Felicia, you have to kiss him. This is your chance!”

  And then it became clear. Before we left New Jersey, my mom was determined to hook me up.

  For the record, I had never kissed a boy before, and she had to know this, since I’d been locked away like Rapunzel. Maybe it was because she drove seventeen hours and wanted some payoff, but she decided to jump in and grease the libido. In her “helpful” mind, I didn’t know enough to interact with guys properly, and she was going to be my guide. Whether I liked it or not.

  At the end of the afternoon, all the other Dragons dispersed with the promise of “Let’s meet up again!” (Except we never would.) Then my mom found an excuse to drive me and Tyler to a nearby Walmart.

  She dragged my brother inside, leaving me and Tyler alone in the car together, with the ulterior motive of giving us time to mash faces.

  “I’m going to get some snacks for the drive tomorrow. Ryon, you want Bugles?” My brother got out of the car and followed her without looking up from his Game Boy. I don’t think he looked up from that thing for six years, to be honest.

  I made one last desperate attempt to escape. “We can go with you! Please!”

  “Nope. You two stay here and have fun!” As she left, my mom gave me her “You’d better do this, or I’m gonna pinch you really hard later” look through the open car window.

  Great. I had to go through with it.

  I remember very little of the buildup to my very first kiss. Tyler and I were in the backseat together, and it was hot. Anything we said to each other was white noise as I bathed in my own pubescent sweat and dread. When I think back on it, maybe Tyler thought I was nervous because I was excited to kiss him? For the record, I was not. I just wanted to check the box and get it over with so my family could come back with Bugles.

  Finally, I made a move in. He obliged. We met in the middle and . . .

  It was not good. The feeling of “Ew” is still vivid now. I remember thinking, Lips are pretty gross. In my defense, I am a REALLY careful eater, and his lips were wetter than lips should EVER be when you’re out of a pool.

  Grody. We retracted, underwhelmed. A few beats of silent horror spanned the back of the 1990 two-door Acura.

  “So . . . um, are you gonna write any more Ultima game poetry soon? I think you should do one on the magical explosion at Scara Brae.”

  “Really? I do love that quest line!”

  We talked about the finer points of the game inventory management system until my family returned. Whew, significant sexual life experience, over!

  My mom gave me a pointed look in the rearview as she got in the car. I responded by putting my sticky, sweaty hand on Tyler’s sticky, sweaty hand and smiled. She nodded and we drove off.

  And that is why, to this day, I hate New Jersey.

  Even though it wasn’t great, that trip didn’t cause me to break off my relationship with the Ultima Dragons group. The breakup happened a few months afterward when Prodigy stopped unlimited monthly usage and started charging by the hour. Dumb jerks. The group dispersed, but a few friendships persevered. I kept up my platonic three-way with Tyler and Henry, and Henry actually ended up going to college at University of Texas with me the following year and became one of my best friends. Tyler drifted away because his mom wouldn’t let him join us; she thought we were freaks. She was probably right.

  I know the story of my Dragon-hood may sound a little sad and weird and super geeky, but (kiss story aside) for a girl who was lonely and desperate for friends, that group of people was the most important social thing to happen to me growing up. I can’t imagine being as confident about my passion for geeky things today without that opportunity to connect with OTHER people who were saying, “Wow, I love those geeky things, too!”

  That early community taught me how wonderful it is to connect with like-minded people. No matter how lonely and isolated and starved for connection you are, there’s always the possibility in the online world that you can find a place to be accepted, or discover a friendship that’s started with the smallest of interests but could last a lifetime. Your qualification for finding a place to belong is enthusiasm and passion, and I think that’s a beautiful thing.

  No one should feel lonely or embarrassed about liking something. Except for illegal sex picture stuff. And murder and dogfighting . . . I’ll make a list. It’ll be pretty long, now that I think about i
t. But you get the gist.

  Signed,

  Codex Dragon

  -==(UDIC)==-

  - 3 -

  Jail Bait

  The deprived college years: Surprisingly, people didn’t invite the sixteen-year-old violin prodigy to keggers.

  My mother got me into playing the violin at age two and a half because she was watching a morning talk show and saw a bunch of small children playing the instrument together in a perfectly straight line, like creepy toddler robots. They were showing off a technique called Suzuki that teaches kids to play really young, even before they learn how to walk without stumbling around, looking all drunk and stuff. In a startling not-so-coincidence, I was born with a congenitally shortened ligament in my left thumb (I like to think it’s a romantic birth defect, like Anne Boleyn’s sixth finger), and in my mom’s mind, “crooked thumb + violin neck” added up to destiny.

  My music studies were a big excuse for my being homeschooled, so I would theoretically have more time to practice and become a world-renowned soloist, traveling around the world in a red velvet coach. Unfortunately, I didn’t take it seriously enough to earn the coach, and my parents didn’t force me to try. Which I’m thankful for. I’ve met a lot of those kids whose parents crammed something down their throats trying to make baby geniuses. Even by my maladjusted standards, those kids were maladjusted.

  No, the most my mom ever did to pressure me about my violin was scream, “YUCK!” really loudly from the other room if I hit a bad note while practicing.

  Laziest stage mom EVER.

  I did practice when I was bored, and I was bored a lot, so around the age of eight I started to be able to play without sounding like I was throttling a cat. After that, my mom decided to upgrade me to the best teacher we could get in the haute-cultured Southern Mississippi vicinity. I’m not sure what the endgame was other than “My beautiful child is a violin savant, I will get her the best training possible so the world can be blessed with her greatness!” but it was a real gift, because we didn’t have a lot of money and lessons were expensive, and my violin abilities ended up getting me a full scholarship to college. I just wish the teacher she found me at the time hadn’t been a Russian madman.

  For years, we’d drive an hour and a half to New Orleans so I could train with a huge, had-to-be-related-to-a-bear man named Viktor. He was from the “A touch of abuse very good!” school of Soviet training. He would hit me on the arm when I played off-key. With an actual stick. My theory? It was the whittled-down arm bone of a former student.

  “Nyet! Nyet! You no practice?! Lazy!” He’d throw up his hands and stare at me with colossal disappointment, like I was his underage daughter, pregnant with fifteen sets of twins.

  “I’m sorry, I’ll practice more next week!” I rarely did, but it always felt good to have that moment of resolve, like saying, “I’m gonna learn French!” It doesn’t MATTER if you do it or not, deciding is the high, right?

  When I’d massacre Bach again the following week, Viktor would take a more Communist approach. “Nyet! Nyet!!” He’d stomp over and take my bow hand roughly from behind me and start sawing at the instrument, moving my arm like a terrified puppet across the strings. I’d hang on as much as I could, struggling to keep the bow anywhere near the instrument.

  “Understand? You play like this!” I didn’t, but I’d nod and just pray for the horrible amusement park ride to be over. This is how I learned to play the violin really, really well.

  Despite Czar Viktor’s passive aggressiveness and his exact resemblance to Mikhail Gorbachev (sans head tattoo), I loved him and never wanted to disappoint him. Because, as sad as he could get when I was lazy, he became equally impassioned when I was great.

  One year I had to play a Mozart concerto for the spring recital, and I came super prepared for dress rehearsal at Viktor’s house. My family was having money problems, and it cost a lot to hire a pianist to play with me, so I was determined to get a gold star to show that the money was worth it. Oh, and because my mom said, “I’m paying a lot of money for that pianist, we might not eat this week, so play well or else!”

  We started rehearsing, objectively I was rocking the trills, and in the middle I looked over and saw Viktor waving his arms and head around like Stevie Wonder. (No insult, he was just into it.) Out of his right eye, I could have sworn there was . . . moisture? Trickling?! Was the meanest man I’d ever met having a stroke?! Was I having a stroke? What should I do?! It freaked me out and I almost stopped playing. I didn’t, because I didn’t want to waste $2.25 a minute, but the impulse was definitely there.

  After I was done, Viktor walked over and cupped my face in both hands like it was a Fabergé egg. “So good, so good, my heart!” He thumped himself in the chest. It was a gesture of . . . I’m not sure. Something positive, like CPR. As the pianist left, he screamed into his kitchen at his little wife, Raeza, who was always cooking while wearing a pair of medical scrubs, even though she wasn’t in the medical profession.

  “Raeza! Borscht! We eat!”

  He hauled me into the kitchen, a room I’d never entered in more than five years of studying with him, and ate disgusting blood-pink soup together.

  He looked over the top of his bowl, smiling. “Yes?”

  “It’s great!” I wanted to throw up.

  “Good girl.” Viktor patted my head and slurped.

  I think in Russia, he’d legally adopted me.

  [ College Timez! ]

  When I got into my teens, I took the violin more seriously. Because people would tell me how I was adorable when I played, and I’m a praise monkey. (Will perform for smiles!) I auditioned for the Juilliard pre-program when I was fourteen and was accepted, but finances wouldn’t allow us to move to New York City full-time. It was a crushing blow because I was definitely ready to move out of the house. In fact, I was always ready to move out. I’d picked out a list of excellent boarding schools by age twelve and couldn’t understand why we weren’t wealthy enough for me to go abroad like in the “Madeline” books. Or, alternatively, rent me an apartment down the street. I forged my mom’s signature and paid all the bills for her anyway, so at that point it was just geographical logistics, right? My parents couldn’t understand my vision.

  So when my professor offered to help me get into University of Texas at Austin, I was all over it like a rabid dog on jerky. Or whatever analogy. Look, I was excited.

  We were living in San Antonio at the time, and my violin teacher was Mr. Frittelli, a professor at UT. He was a tiny man and a dazzling violinist who appreciated a good fart joke. My kind of guy.

  One day he asked, “What are you doing for college?”

  I sighed a dramatic teen sigh. “I have a ton of them picked out, but I dunno, I have forever to decide.” Being precocious was SO HARD.

  “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen, gonna be sixteen in June.”

  “Do you want to go to college this year?”

  “What?”

  OMG.

  “Yes. Take me there now, please!”

  I’m not sure who Mr. Frittelli blackmailed in order to get an underage teenager with literally NO school transcripts into a public collegiate institution, but a week after we spoke—*BOOM*—he’d arranged for a full scholarship for me to study music starting in the fall. All I had to provide was an SAT score!

  Um . . . okay?

  I had taken exactly one standardized test in my life. It was an IQ test to get into preschool. I got all the questions right except one where they asked, “Where is your mom in this picture? The beach or the shed?” I answered “the shed” because I thought they meant “the shade.” I knew at age five that my mom was paranoid about sun damage, no way was she hanging on the beach. So in a relative sense, I did perfectly. Anyway, whatever qualifications, I was not letting a stupid bubble test get in the way of this “escape homeschooling” opportunity. The SAT was the Rosetta stone for me. I had no idea what was going on with that thing, but I was gonna crack it!
>
  I scheduled the test for the following weekend (five days of study seemed more than enough) and got one of those thick SAT practice books from the library. I filled out more than one hundred practice tests in five days. No joke. Hand cramped, eyes watering; in retrospect, it would have made a great movie montage with “Eye of the Tiger” playing in the background.

  If this story followed classic movie plot construction, I would have failed the test horribly, given up, then discovered newfound resolve through an old homeless man’s inspirational words to try again and ace the results. But life doesn’t follow traditional story arcs. Whether it was by naïveté or the hand of Thor, I have no idea, but when the results came back, I’d gotten an almost perfect score. One of the few answers I missed was a vocabulary question defining “Spartan,” which does NOT mean “warrior-like” but “austere and sparse.” (To this day I still think that is misleading and stupid. I saw 300. What am I, a fool?) But based on my scores, I was definitely, absolutely going to college!

  Things were going to CHANGE! I could be on my own. To experience life in bigger social contexts than just me and my brother and my online friends! I would move to Austin, be like Felicity or Doogie Howser, MD, plans plans plans . . . TIRE SCREECH.

  Turns out, legally, I was too young to live in the dorms alone. My family’s solution? Move to Austin so I could attend school while living at home.

  And my mom ended up driving me to college every day.

  For four years.

  Sigh.

  I entered college just as I turned sixteen, with a plan to double-major in mathematics and music. The math thing was for my dad and grandpa, who were firm believers in Real Degrees. (I capitalize because that’s how they sounded when they said I had to get one. “A Real Degree.”)

  You’d think jumping into a school of 30,000-plus students would be intimidating for a girl who’d had only her little brother to hang around for most her life, and you would be right. Luckily, most of my time was to be spent in the music building annex, which was a small underfunded island unto itself. So at least it was the shallow end of the pool I got thrown into without having any limbs to swim.