Gianmarco Soresi takes the stage like a man who’s learned to laugh at the abyss—mic in one hand, the other gesturing wildly as if conducting an orchestra of personal disasters.

His bit on dating a girlfriend with chronic night terrors isn’t just comedy; it’s a survival manual wrapped in punchlines, delivered with the frantic energy of someone who’s dodged midnight projectiles.

“She doesn’t have nightmares,” he deadpans, eyes wide. “She has full-length horror films—directed by her subconscious, starring me as the unwitting victim.” The crowd leans in, half-laughing, half-wincing, because who hasn’t woken up to a partner’s elbow in the ribs, mistaking you for a demon?

The terrors started innocently enough: a whimper, a twitch, then escalation. “First night together, 3 a.m.—she bolts upright, screams ‘The walls are melting!’ and karate-chops the lamp.

I’m naked, disoriented, thinking, ‘Is this performance art or should I call an exorcist?’” Gianmarco mimics the chop—whack!—his arm slicing air like a bad kung-fu movie. The audience howls; a woman in the front row nods vigorously, mouthing “Same.”

He paints the scene: him diving for cover under Egyptian cotton, whispering “It’s okay, babe, it’s just IKEA walls,” while she thrashes like a possessed marionette. The punchline lands soft: “I learned to sleep with one eye open—and a hockey mask under the pillow.”

Therapy sessions became couple’s therapy by proxy. “Doctor says it’s stress-induced—PTSD from a bad breakup or childhood clowns, who knows.” Gianmarco’s girlfriend, a graphic designer with a day job in calm fonts, transforms at night into a glitchy horror protagonist.

One episode: she grabs his throat, eyes rolled back, hissing “The spiders are in the code!” He wheezes a laugh: “I’m a comedian, not a debugger—get Blue Screen of Death off my larynx!”

The bit escalates—him installing baby monitors “for adults,” rigging fairy lights as “demon deterrents,” even attempting hypnosis apps that backfire spectacularly. “Siri says ‘Relax and breathe’—she screams ‘Intruder!’ and yeets my phone at the wall. Apple Care doesn’t cover nocturnal assaults.”

The terror tales culminate in a road trip gone demonic. “Motel 6 in Jersey—romantic, right? She wakes mid-scream, convinced the ice machine is a chainsaw murderer. Runs naked into the parking lot, me chasing with a towel like a bad rom-com sequel.”

Gianmarco acts it out—towel flapping, dodging semis, yelling “It’s just cubes, babe!” The crowd loses it; a guy in the back snorts beer. “Lesson learned: book Airbnbs with exorcism reviews—five stars, ‘Ghost-free, but bring sage.’”

The bit pivots seamlessly to his tattoo regret, a scarlet letter inked in youthful stupidity. “Before the terrors, I had baggage—literal ink of an ex’s initial. ‘K’ on my wrist, for Kayla, who dumped me via Post-it. Classy.” He flashes a mock tattoo, finger-drawn ‘K’ smudged like bad decisions.

“Got it at 22, drunk on love and tequila. Thought it was eternal—turns out ‘K’ also stands for ‘Keep the regret.’” The audience groans in sympathy; tattoos are comedy gold, regret’s permanent marker.

Cover-up attempts became a saga of bad ideas. “First artist suggests a rose—‘K’ becomes the stem. Romantic? No, looks like a thorny mistake.” Gianmarco mimics the artist’s pitch: “Petals for passion!”

He rolls his eyes: “Passion for what, pruning?” Second try: laser removal—“Felt like a thousand bee stings from hell’s apiary. ‘K’ faded to a blurry smudge—now it’s ‘K?’ like my wrist is questioning my life choices.” The crowd cackles; a woman shouts “Get a semicolon!” He fires back: “Semicolon for pause—mine’s a full stop on dumb youth.”

The tattoo ties into the terrors like a twisted bow. “Girlfriend sees the ‘K,’ freaks nightly: ‘Who’s K? Killer? Kraken?’ I’m like, ‘Ex, babe—harmless, unless bad taste counts as felony.’”

One terror episode: she grabs the wrist, screams “The K is coming for us!” He wakes tattoo-side up, her nails digging in: “I’m dating a horror trope—initials that haunt.” Gianmarco’s delivery turns vulnerability into victory: “Turned the ‘K’ into a key—tattooed a tiny lock around it. Symbolism: locked away the past. Or just ‘K’ for ‘Keep Out, Night Terrors.’”

The stories converge in a punchline symphony. “Dating her is exposure therapy—terrors desensitize you to everything. Ex’s ‘K’? Faded ghost. Midnight screams? White noise.”

He pauses, timing perfect: “Got a new tattoo—earplugs on my neck. For the screams… or the regrets.” The crowd erupts; it’s comedy catharsis—turning scars into scars with better stories.

Gianmarco’s style thrives on relatability: the terrors mirror universal fears—vulnerability in love, the ghosts of exes literal or inked. “She wakes screaming; I wake questioning my life—teamwork!” Therapy helped: weighted blankets, white-noise machines shaped like boyfriends.

“Now she dreams of calm oceans—I dream of earplugs that block existential dread.” The tattoo? Final cover: a tiny night-light bulb over the ‘K.’ “Lights out the past—literally. Glows in the dark during terrors—romantic, or emergency beacon?”

Audience Q&A turns confessional. A fan asks, “How do you sleep?” Answer: “Like a dad at a sleepover—lightly, with one eye on the exit.” Another: “Regret the tat?” “Nah—regret’s the ink that never fades.

Makes me laugh—comedy’s best when it hurts a little.” The bit closes with hope: “She’s getting better—terrors down to weekly. Me? I’m upgraded—tattoo now a lightning bolt. ‘K’ for ‘KAPOW’—ex’s initial, my superpower origin.”

Gianmarco’s routine isn’t just laughs; it’s love letters to chaos. The girlfriend—anonymous but adored—becomes co-star: “She’s my muse with a scream track.” The tattoo? A badge: “Proof I survived bad decisions—and lived to overshare.”

In a set full of flips, the real twist: vulnerability disarms demons better than any cover-up laser. The crowd exits buzzing—some booking therapy, others checking wrists for regrets—reminded that life’s terrors, inked or screamed, make the best stories when you laugh loudest in the dark.