So I went out last night - very much unlike me - and went to partayyy.
No, I'm kidding. I wasn't really partying, lest you die of shock. I actually went to this pretty awesome place in the Valley.
(I may have started completing things on my list of things I said I'd never/prefer not to do. Go to a place - at night - in the Valley was one of them.)
Anyway, so this place - Mana Bar - was holding a masquerade night. Mana Bar is a gamer bar. I'd not been to a gamer bar before, so it was a new experience compared to the usual live music drunken patrons scene. I was freezing - as I am an idiot, I didn't stop to think that a short dress, stockings, ankle boots and a thin cardi weren't exactly good attire for warmth - so in that bar, it was packed. And I was rather warm indeed.
Little secret, I am not a gamer. My gaming repertoire consists of Guitar Hero, Spyro, a bit of Crash Bandicoot, Sims, Tekken and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. (Soon, Harry Potter Lego. SO. EXCITED.) So anyone says CoD, I'm like, "What? Cod? The fish? How the heck do you play with a fish? Kevin never used to play, though he was a fighting fish, and a frightened one at that..."
But at this place, lo and behold - Guitar Hero. Nikita, Joshua and I were hunting this bar down, and I just slunk over to Guitar Hero and began playing.
I highly doubt I left that bar stool that night, because not only is playing fun, but watching those pretty lights... ahh, it's lovely. And it was quite good, because these people were like, "Hey, you're really quite good at this," and all I get at home (from Chris) is, "You suck. You realise that you're supposed to HIT the notes, don't you? Why do you fail at life?"
High on this victory, I stormed out of my room this morning and slung a guitar around my neck, slid Beatles Rockband into the player, and nodded to myself. It was to be grand.
Then Chris came home.
I was expertly strumming and telling him how I was getting all the photos, and he calmly sat on the lounge and watched.
That's when I began getting nervous. My fingers began trembling as I pressed those plastic notes and tapped, with increasing stress, at the strummer, and suddenly I was messing up the Beatles. I could just see it - George, Ringo, John and Paul standing in Sergeant Pepper uniforms, glaring at me and shaking their heads crossly. I was failing. Not literally, but in my mind. And it didn't help that Chris, trying to mock Helter Skelter, was dancing stupidly next to me. I felt confused. Still trying in vain to hit those notes, I sunk down onto a stool.
And I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. So I pressed the pause button, feeling slightly light headed. Chris's show was over; he left the room and I slumped on my stool. What was it? Why was it that around my brother - the guy who'd taught me to play - I couldn't do it, but around a random group of bar frequenters, I could play? All confidence I'd had in my abilities was shot.
I propped the guitar up against the TV, and went to go start prepping my roast. Suddenly, Chris raced out of his room. "YOU'RE FAILING!" he screamed. He started doing what can only be called a jig. "YOU'RE FAILING! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA FAILING!"
My only instinct was to run to the TV, begin stroking it, and begging it not to turn red. It didn't work.
Chris and I were left with a FAIL on the screen, and our eyes on it. "Well," I said, "at least this screen looks pretty."
"That's true. But you still suck."
I could only nod. And vow to myself he'd see my wicked skills at some point. Wicked skills, I tell you.