On Thursday night I recited the words of a slam-poet named Anis Mojgani, in the dark. I used my whole body, because I don't know how else to talk; how else to think but through three dimensional gestures.

I am, by nature, terrified.

Of life, of growing up, of speaking in public.

I love stories, and the telling of them; it's the telling-with-an-audience that gets me.

I hadn't expected to read, not really. I'd wanted to go and hear, but never read. When I sat down, Jennica was doing a mic check, reading another of Anis' works Shake the Dust, and I immediately thought I was off the hook because surely she'd do his most amazing poem and I'd be spared the peer pressure of any friend that showed up.

Corrigan was there, too, and I didn't want to make a fool of myself in front of him. And then Mrs. Cotton happened, the resident peer-pressure expert, and Jennica (clearly, she hates me) resolutely failed to perform Sock Hop.

It was nerve-wracking and terrified, and even though I've never had a seizure before, I kept thinking ... there's always a first time. And being on stage, it certainly seemed to be a good time for one. After I got started, though, thoroughly surprising myself by knowing all of the words (at one point I took a deep breath during a dramatic pause, and thought, well, whatever comes out of my mouth next will hopefully be words that are actually in this poem, but no matter, I’m pretty sure I know how it ends, so hopefully I can weave it into the ending, and surprised myself by not having to improve.) ... it was sort of ... fun.

I preformed it again to my mirror that night. It was easier, but it didn't make my heart pump the same way; didn't make my legs turn into useless quivering jelly, either.