You're Never Weird on the Internet (Almost) (2 page)

“Nope.”

I opened my mouth to lecture the kid on how princess dresses reinforce sexual stereotypes when the Build-A-Bear saleswoman walked up to join the crowd.

“How’s it going back here?”

One of the Hot Topic girls spoke up. “We’re just grabbing a picture with Felicia Day! She’s awesome.” I thought to myself,
I should bring these girls with me everywhere.

“Oh. Are you a celebrity?”

“I didn’t recognize her either!” said the mother. She smiled at the saleswoman in camaraderie, which was kind of crappy but understandable. I’d have the same reaction if I encountered a reality star I didn’t recognize. Or a sports person. Or a lot of other internet stars, really.

One of the Hot Topics, the ChapStick one, came to my defense. “It’s Felicia Day! She makes tons of videos online.”

“Internet videos? Do you do pranks or something?” said the saleswoman.

Oh, hell no. “No pranks, no kittens, no extreme sports, or music parodies. Probably why you don’t recognize me, ha!”

“Probably.”

One of the other Hot Topics said, “I only know you because my boyfriend is into your gaming stuff. He has a huge crush on you.” Then she gave a reassuring smile. “I’m cool with it!”

“Great, that’s a real compliment!”

I hear this a lot. The insecure part of me always feels like there’s a backhanded insult underneath, like the girls know I’m not QUITE hot enough for their guy to go through with a hookup. Sometimes I think to myself,
I can steal your boyfriend. WORRY ABOUT ME!

At this point, I realized that I needed to move the conversation along.

“I think we can just take the pictures now and go about our bear building . . .” The mother was already ahead of me and snapped the first iPhone photo as I was midsentence.

I tried to freeze retroactively into a rictus smile, one I’ve perfected over the years to prevent me from looking like I have palsy in the thousands of pictures that are tagged on Facebook, but I had a feeling it was too late. I leaned forward, “Can you just take that one again . . . never mind.” She had already moved on to the next phone. It was fine; people have palsy. I could look like I have palsy, too.

As we took the photos, the saleswoman texted on her phone, then called over.

“Hey, I just texted my son, and he’s never heard about you. And he’s online all the time.”

“It’s a big internet . . .”

“He’s on there a LOT.”

“Uh, I’m sorry?”

One of the Hot Topics started going Team Felicia on her. “He’s probably one of those online trolls who hate on women.”

“My son is very respectful of women, thank you.”

“You never know . . .”

I could smell the situation going south. “We don’t need to get in a tussle, guys. Everyone on the internet is a jerk sometimes, ha!”

Hot Topic drew back like I’d slapped her. “I’m not!”

Leave it to me to alienate my own roadies. “Oh, I didn’t mean . . .”

The mother taking photos broke in and shoved her kid toward me. “Jenna, get in there and take a picture!”

“But I don’t KNOW her, Mom!” We posed, the kid’s body language
screaming
of apathy, as a beefy military-type guy came strolling up to the saleswoman with a pair of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle dolls in hand. “Ma’am, can you show me where the nunchakus are?” He looked over at my doll and scowled. “Is that Santa Claus in a tutu?”

Annnnd . . . that was my cue to head for the exit.

“It was nice to meet everyone!” I grabbed literally anything nearby to accessorize my stuffed Santa—because he was
not
leaving Lancaster naked—and backed away toward the cash register, waving like an idiot on a parade float. “You guys rock, thanks for supporting my work!”

Two hundred dollars’ worth of plastic skates, sunglasses, and mini-electric guitars later, I left the mall. This is what I built, if you’re curious:

Yes, Santa’s holding a light saber.

Then I drove to where I was headed before I stopped at the mall: to meet Richard Branson.

(Okay, I had to type it that way because it sounds impressive. I was technically not meeting him
personally
. I was touring his Virgin Galactic spaceship hangar on a social media PR invite. But during the event, I stood two feet away from him on up to
four
occasions, and he was wearing a hot leather jacket and had perfectly coiffed hair. Definitely smiled in my direction. So yeah, we’re besties.)

All in all, it was a completely typical day in my life.

Not.

Based on that story, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to make a stab-in-the-dark assumption: You’re either extremely excited to read this book (inner dialogue: “OMG, FELICIA DAY WROTE A BOOK!”). Or extremely confused (inner dialogue: “Who is this chick again?”).

For the excited: Thanks for liking my work! I like you, too!

For the confused? I hear you, man. The friend who gave you this book does not know you
at all
. They should have gone with a more impersonal choice, like a scented candle or a gift certificate to somewhere with good french fries, amiright?

But do I at least look a
little
familiar? Like the girlfriend of one of your cousins? I’ve been told I have a significant-other-of-a-distant-relative quality to my face.

Or just a little bit of Emily Blunt in the eyes area?

I’m not begging, I’m just asking.

Forget it.

I know I shouldn’t introduce my own memoir with this amount of insecurity, but my personal life philosophy is always to assume the worst, then you’re never disappointed.
BAM! Highlight that
previous sentence, baby! It’ll be one of
many
quotable life-nuggets you’ll be able to pull from this thing. I’m SUPER good at inventing Hallmark-type solipsisms. Later in life, I plan on making my fortune with a T-shirt/mouse pad/coffee mug company. I’ll call it Have a Nice Day Corp.! because of my last name, har har!

Yes. Sorry.

Hi, I’m Felicia Day. I’m an actor. That quirky chick in that one science fiction show? You know the one I’m talking about. I’m never on the actual poster, but I always have a few good scenes that make people laugh. As a redhead, I’m a sixth-lead specialist, and I practically invented the whole “cute but offbeat hacker girl” trope on television. (Sorry. When I started doing it, it was fresh. I promise.)

I’m the writer, producer, and actress/host/personality of hundreds of internet videos. Literally hundreds. I have a problem, guys (let’s talk more about it later). A lot of people know my work. And a lot of people do not. I like to refer to myself as “situationally recognizable.” It’s way better than “internet famous,” which makes me feel like I’m
in the same category as a mentally challenged cat or a kid doing yo-yo tricks while riding a pogo stick. I know that kid, super talented. But the cat . . . not so much.

Seven years ago, I started shooting internet videos in my garage with a borrowed camera, and now I juggle acting on television with writing, producing, and running a web video production company called Geek & Sundry. I’m a social media “aficionado” (née “addict”), I have well over two million Twitter followers, and I’m usually the lone female on lists of prominent nerds, lauded as the media-anointed “Queen of the Geeks.” It’s a title I reject personally, but when someone else uses it, I go ahead and enjoy it as a compliment. Because who
doesn’t
want to inherit a dynasty just because of their gene-stuffs? No work, just ! Born special!

On average, a random person on the street won’t know my work, but there are certain places where I’m a superstar, like San Diego Comic-Con, and . . . other places like San Diego Comic-Con. Oh, and I have a HUGE barista recognition factor. Seventy-five percent of the time when I’m ordering my “almond milk matcha latte with no sugar added, lukewarm, please,” I’ll be recognized by an employee. And yes, my order is a pain in the ass, but I’m determined to enjoy the liquid indulgences of modern life. Might as well take advantage of it all before the zombie apocalypse. I have no practical skills; I’m fully aware that I’ll be one of the first ones “turned.” Instead of learning motorcycle repair or something else disaster-scenario useful, I’ll order the drink I want until I become a shambling corpse.

And I won’t be defensive about it, okay?!

I’m very grateful for the weird niche I’ve created in life. Some people know me
only
from my Twitter feed. That’s fine, too, because I, objectively, give VERY good tweet.

Frankly, I’d hate a life where everyone knew me and people made money selling pictures of me without makeup to tabloids. I’m not in the business of wearing makeup every day. Or going out of my house on a regular basis. I’m most comfortable behind a keyboard and . . . that’s it. Real life is awkward for me, like wearing a pair of hot shorts. There’s no way to walk around in those and NOT assume people are snickering behind my back about droopy under-cleavage.

The informality of the online world makes it feel like I’m less a “celebrity” and more a big sister my fans can be brutally honest with. “Felicia! Loved your last video. You looked tired, though; take melatonin, it’ll help with the jet lag!” They know me as a sort of digital friend, not an object to be torn down over superficials. (Probably because I don’t give them much “objectifying” material.)

The best part about this weirdly cobbled-together career I’ve built is that
I get to bury myself in all the subjects I love. Comics, video games, DVDs, romance novels, TV shows, bad kung fu movies. It’s all
part of my job
to purchase these things and mostly legally deduct them from my taxes. And it makes it easier to connect with people, no matter where I am in the world. When the occasional stranger approaches me at a party to say, “Hey, you’re Felicia Day. Let’s talk about that comic book you were tweeting about last week!” it’s the greatest thing in the world. Because it saves me from having to stand in the corner awkwardly, drinking all the Sprite, and then leaving after ten minutes without saying good-bye to the host. (That’s called an Irish exit, and I’m part Irish, so it’s part of my genetic wheelhouse.) As someone who had few or . . . yeah, NO friends when I was growing up? Pretty sweet deal.