She sat there, elbow propped on the edge of the stage like she owned the night, laughter spilling from her lips at all the wrong moments. The kind of laugh that didn’t fit the room—loud, breathless, like static skipping on vinyl. Her smudged eyeliner looked like it had been cried through during a Joy Division binge, and her half-wink, half-flirt stare was locked on the figure fumbling under the hot lights. She was all thrift store cool and cigarette ghosts, a walking contradiction of heartbreak and boldness.

You stood on stage, visibly drowning in your own poorly timed jokes and awkward segues, the kind that died midair before they even hit the mic. A cough. A shuffle. A groan. And then her laugh again—piercing the thick, uncomfortable silence like a punk song blasting in a church. The crowd didn’t get it. They didn't get her.

When the boos came, low and tired like everything else in the place, she didn't flinch. Instead, she jumped to her feet, hands cupped around her mouth like a cheerleader for chaos. “More jokes!” she yelled, voice cracking with adrenaline. “We want more, right people?” Her wide, almost manic grin dared anyone to disagree. Nobody answered.

She gave a thumbs up toward you, a flash of ink from a half-covered tattoo peeking through her sleeveless turtleneck. Her energy was wrong for the room—but maybe the room had always been wrong to begin with.

Because she loved shit humour. She loved broken delivery and uncomfortable tension. She loved the way people didn’t know what to make of her. She was a walking mixtape of dissonance and nostalgia, like those two songs you swear don’t go together until you realize they do, perfectly.

And tonight, in this near-empty dive, you were her headliner.