Why Fringe?
For years, I genuinely believed my life story was too ordinary to tell.
No dragons.
No celebrity scandals.
No secret royal bloodline.
Just a Trinidadian kid who moved countries too many times, worked in a family business before puberty, survived North American winters through sheer emotional damage, and accidentally became emotionally dependent on bubbles.
Not exactly Hollywood material.
I kept thinking:
“Why would anyone care about my story?”
And honestly… fair question.
Most of my adult life was incredibly responsible.
I got diplomas and a degree.
I worked in IT.
I answered emails with phrases like:
“Per my previous message.”
That sentence alone should disqualify someone from theatre.
But somewhere along the way, I realized something:
a lot of people are quietly disappearing inside their own lives.
Not dramatically.
Not dramatic enough for a Netflix breakdown.
Just slowly becoming smaller versions of themselves because it’s practical.
Responsible.
Efficient.
You wake up one day and realize your personality has been replaced by calendar notifications.
And that’s where my story suddenly stopped feeling personal.
Because I started recognizing the same exhaustion everywhere.
People who used to draw.
People who used to sing.
People who used to laugh loudly.
People who had joy… but packed it away because adulthood said:
“We don’t really do that here.”
That’s why I think this story matters.
Not because my life is extraordinary.
But because it’s familiar.
Also… I tell parts of it while making giant bubbles float on stage, which honestly helps.
Therapy is expensive.
Bubbles are surprisingly efficient.
And maybe that’s the real reason this story needs to be told:
because somewhere out there is another exhausted human being who forgot they’re allowed to play.
And if my weird little journey helps someone reconnect with a forgotten part of themselves…
then every awkward life chapter suddenly becomes worth sharing.
Even the DOS commands.
Even the burnout.
Even Texas weather.