On tortured artists

Mawil - We can still be friends

I darkened the door of Forbidden Planet the other day, and I wasn’t even the only female therein, which just shows.. something, I imagine, and saw fit to indulge myself with this book, which had thus far escaped me. I don’t know why exactly it is so entertaining to read the toe-curling stories of Mawil’s adolescent failure to launch in the girl department, but oh! it really, really is. They so perfectly capture the excruciatingly sickening embarrassment of those fumbled embraces. Embarrassment is truly the emotion that never dies, is it not? I mean, years and years later those painful scenarios still have the power to turn you into a pretzel of mortification. Argg. Yes. I think we all know what I am talking about, here.

Jeffrey Brown, himself no slouch in the cringe department (Love him, too. Love these master cringe-makers.) says it best on the back:

If only Mawil was as good with the girls as he is a cartoonist, then we wouldn’t have these fun stories about how he isn’t good with the girls. Which is good for us readers, I guess, and if Mawil’s adolescent love life has to suffer for the greater good, I’m okay with that. Thank you, Mawil.

Quite, quite. Thank you, Mawil. Your stories are so endearing. And since we’re here, can I just apologise to anyone I ever patronised with that line? We can still be friends?
Because, clearly, we can’t.

And I am sure cowardice is the only reason I never had to hear it, myself.