I arrive at the coffee shop five minutes past 4 p.m. I’d love to blame traffic, but the truth is—I wasn’t even sure I wanted to go on this date. It’s been three months since the worst night of my life, and “getting back in the saddle” was the last thing on my list.

The bell over the door trills, and it feels like every pair of eyes turns my way. I wonder if they’ve seen the YouTube video too. Last I checked—approximately fifteen minutes ago—it had over twelve million views. Statistically, someone in here has seen it. If I’m lucky, my new haircut and color will throw them off. I went from long, raven-black waves to a shoulder-length bob with ombré ends and lowlights. _“It frames your face well,”_ my hairdresser had said, and I chose to believe her.

I spot the guy I’m meeting tucked in the corner window, his back to me. I recognize him by the Hawaiian shirt—his self-proclaimed “lucky” one from our Tinder messages. I stop at his table and say, “Hey Steve, nice to meet you.”

He startles a little but recovers quickly. Rising from his seat, he awkwardly moves in for a hug before changing course and offering a handshake.

“Hey, Olivia. Nice to meet you too.”

We shake hands. The silence between us stretches. Odds are: he’s seen the video.

I gesture toward the counter. “I’m gonna grab a coffee.”

“I’ll come with you,” he offers, following me into line.

“I didn’t think you’d actually show,” he says.

“Oh—yeah, traffic.” I smile weakly. “I should’ve texted.”
(Lie. I almost bailed five times.)

Before he can reply, the barista waves us forward. “I’ll take a large iced cappuccino—and he’ll take…”

“Matcha,” Steve says.

_Matcha?_ I think. Strike one.

Drinks in hand, we return to the table. I sit across from him and take a good look. There’s something about him that feels oddly familiar. I sip my drink and glance around. This may be the most awkward first date of my life. But I’ve survived worse. Literally.

Three months ago, I was hosting an open mic for my comedy troupe, _The Cliterati_, at The Paramount down the road. It was our big showcase. I was buzzing with excitement, watching my girls slay on stage, when _BAM!_ Something hit me in the back. A spitball—wet, gooey, iridescent.

“Take that and rub it against your Cliterati, you ugly troll!”

I spun to see who said it—_BAM_—another hit. Right. In. The. Eye.

Blinded, I stumbled off stage… directly into a bowl of sticky rice. Because it’s 2025, the whole thing was filmed, uploaded, remixed. When I lifted my head, well—imagine a drowned poodle meets a yeast infection. That’s what the internet saw.

Thus, _The Cliterati Yeti_ was born. And I was publicly, digitally, and emotionally destroyed. The video racked up over twelve million views. Zero dollars in return.

And now, here I am, listening to Steve drone on about his crypto portfolio, sipping lukewarm cappuccino, trying to place where I know him from.

Then it hits me.

I freeze mid-sip, eyes wide.

“You,” I whisper. Then louder: “_You!_ You’re the one who hit me with the wad! At the Cliterati show!”

Steve turns pale. “Wait—what?”

“You selfish, egotistical _monster_! Do you even realize it’s me? You ruined my troupe. You made me change my beautiful hair to _this!_” I point dramatically to my bob.

He stammers, cheeks flaming. “I—I didn’t think you'd ever find out. It was a prank. Our troupe, _The Pen Heads_, we were jealous. You guys were killing it…”

“Oh my god,” I breathe. “_You’re the leader of The Pen Heads._ Of course.”

I spin on my heel and storm toward the door. But just before I leave, I turn back and shout: …“And _another thing_—Cliterati Yeti is still a better name than The Pen Heads, you fucking loser!”

I storm out, adrenaline surging, a small crowd of coffee shop patrons frozen in stunned silence. One girl near the cream station locks eyes with me and whispers, “Wait… was that _her_?”

By the time I get to my car, my phone is vibrating nonstop.

Someone filmed it. Of course they did.

Within an hour, the clip is everywhere—TikTok, Instagram, Twitter. The caption?
**“Cliterati Yeti Confronts Her Attacker IRL (You NEED to see this).”**

The comments start pouring in.

_“She’s a legend.”_
_“I was at the Paramount that night. Justice is SERVED.”_
_“Give her a mic and a Netflix special already.”_

Three months later, I’m walking onto a soundstage in Los Angeles. There’s a stool, a spotlight, and my name behind me in bold pink letters:
**OLIVIA BURNS: YETI RISING.**

They say comedy comes from pain.
Turns out, so does revenge.

And yes—the hair stayed.