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Cute Boy Person + Mr B > T-Cells, An Exercise in Optimism

Day 5: I’m hovering at pain scale 3, or a 5 on the Allie Brosh Pain Scale. The pain went back up today and I realized that the culprit was pineapple—as I had a mouth full of fresh, delicious pineapple. "Even a pineapple a day keeps the doctor away" is fail for me. I could list all of the terrible things that I’m ignoring right now but instead, I’m going to talk about Cute Boy Person and my encounters with the illustrious Mr B, in reverse order.

The Story of That Time That I Broke Mr B, the Gentleman Rhymer


Saturday, I was determined to see Mr B. I had a Steamstock ticket with a reserved chair because I am a Girl Scout who is similarly inclined. I walked through the vendor area and just as I walked through the end, I saw Mr B, sitting by himself with a hopeful smile. No one was around buying his CDs. OK, he looked a little dejected and I had a sad. I really needed to sit down and I didn’t have budget for a CD but I couldn’t let him sit there sad and alone and unappreciated. So I sat down at the nearest chair in the concert room to rest and texted Cute Boy Person with my intent to purchase a CD that I couldn’t afford just to get Mr B’s autograph because omfg bad day. CBP said “:)” which equates to “I approve of unaffordable shopping therapy in this case. Huzzah for Mr B.” CBP is a man of few words and many smilies. I could see Mr B from my chair and when I was finally rested enough to go back for a CD, someone else was there buying and then the weird guy who didn’t take “my hair is dirty and gross” as “go away” came over and I eventually fled that chair.

I waited until a crowd gathered to watch a band and went back for Mr B. He was alone again. He had two CDs. I was extremely out of it. I tried to compare the back covers to see which I wanted and I could barely read the text. He said that one was the first two albums combined, so I gave up and decided on the two album one presuming that it was longer. He signed it. I went on my way. There was no chit-chat but I talked to Mr B and under the circumstances, I felt like a success. I saw him head down to a stage later so I got a chair nearer that stage than the VIP reserved seating area. The crowd wasn’t as big as I’d hoped. I wanted this show to be awesome for him because this was only his second US show and I want him to come back! He and his banjolele took the stage.

I laughed so much. Everything hurt. It hurt to laugh. It hurt to bounce up and down with the group. It hurt to wave my hands in the air as though I cared just a touch. I did it anyway because that show was awesome. He engaged the audience so well and he was just amazingly funny. He even did a sarcastic Charleston, which is what I do to make people less self-conscious about dancing on a nearly empty dance floor. (When I’m being ridiculous for attention, it’s suddenly safe to not dance well. I break out in sarcastic interpretive dance if necessary.)

For just a little while, pain and all, I was happy. I needed to be sure that he felt that this show was worthwhile, even if the turnout was a bit low and the CD sales table had been slow. Suddenly, I knew my quest. I went to the ATM. I got in line for a CD. I waited in line standing up. It actually kinda sucked. When I got to the front of the line, I grabbed the CD that I had decided against earlier and I said:

I bought the other one earlier but I just wanted to come back to tell you something. I’ve had a really terrible week and that was the first time in days that I’ve genuinely laughed.


Right at "genuinely," my voice cracked and he looked back up at me. I was propped up on the table for support. I have no poker face and he could probably tell that I was in pain and exhausted. I watched the light bulb go off and he looked like he wanted to reach over the table and give me a hug but was at a loss over whether that was ok or not. After another few seconds he said, in a very knowing tone, “thank you.” And then he tried to sign my CD. He stopped himself a couple of times, making sure he said the right thing and finally he decided on this. Yes, Mr B., hoorah for me! I’m awesome!


Cute Boy Person’s Revenge!

(AKA the second time in this post that his text messages will be featured.)

Cute Boy Person has been worried and checking in on me because I mentioned my T-cells. He sent me a text message this morning just after I woke up, like, Facebook messenger logged in when I opened my laptop and he texted me or something. He asked how I’m doing and we chatted about that for a bit and he said that he would be back next week because his break is over and he has to go into the office.


“I shall be pleased when you return because I am a selfish, horrible person. Or something.”

“:) Not selfish and horrible.”

Translation from CBP: “Yay! You like me! And don’t be hard on yourself.” Ahh Cute Boy Person, your sarcasm detector broke there for a second.


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