What I Learned Traveling the World in a Giant Brain Costume

I want YOU…to ask for my consent before you fondle my gray matter!   Photo by Roberto Ricciuti

I want YOU…to ask for my consent before you fondle my gray matter!

Photo by Roberto Ricciuti

Oh hey there friends, random people who follow my blog, and my Mom!

I know it’s been a while since I’ve stretched the writing muscles, but *ahem* I’ve been a lil’ busy! Oh you know, the usual: performing comedy, sippin’ on overpriced coffee and alcohol in different countries, walking around town in a giant foam brain costume ̶

Right. About that last one.

As I would assume at least some of you weirdos who follow me know, I’ve spent the past month parading around Scotland wearing my custom brain to promote my one-woman show at the famous Edinburgh Fringe Festival.

I know, I know. What in the actual fuck.

And it’s true, I got a lot of “wtf” looks while schlepping my gray matter up and down those cobblestone streets at all hours of the day (calm down, MOM, the taxis there are bigger and could fit my brain inside and I always, always got a taxi home past 10PM).

I’ll admit I was a bit of a freak-magnet.

I mean it’s not every day you see a lady waltzing around town in a giant brain. And if it is then you clearly live on another planet and I’m purchasing a rocket ship and going there immediately.

This lil’ baby is turning five years old next month, can you believe it? It feels like just yesterday that the words “I want a cool Halloween costume” escaped my lips in front of my architect father and crafty mother shortly after recovering from an invasive craniotomy.

When you survive something like that, you say all kinds of crazy shit.

Honestly, I was thinking like a cool T-Shirt. Maybe a hat with some funky noodles popping out of it, you know, something fun for the kids.

Oh no.

The OG shot, taken by my Dad as we walked into my PT on Halloween.

The OG shot, taken by my Dad as we walked into my PT on Halloween.

What followed was a civil war between my parents about how to make a costume for such an occasion. What do you make the girl who survived brain surgery? A giant foam brain, obviously. And when it came time for the festival, it was the first thing on my packing list.

It’s made it’s rounds at Halloween parties, bars, and hospitals aplenty. But never has the brain been on an adventure quite like this.

Of course, the first question was…how the fuck do you ship a giant foam brain to Scotland?

A hockey bag. Duh.

Getting it home was a different story, but we’ll get to that headache later.

Here are a choice few things I’ve learned in my past two months of performing, traveling, and frightening small children while wearing a giant brain costume. Enjoy.


I’m never really “ready” for anything.

In true Mimi-style, I did not prepare for this epic journey as much as I could have. I did a lot, to be sure. But the fact still remains that I submitted a paragraph about a show that didn’t exist to the largest theater festival in the world. That paragraph was accepted.

And then I shit my pants.

I’d never written a “one-woman” show before. I’m not talking stand-up either. I’m talking like theater.

That level of perceived prestige really scared the poop out of me.

Was I qualified to be on a stage for an entire hour with nothing but my story? How does this work? Will I have to memorize all those lines? Do I get a water break?

I actually hadn’t even seen any one-woman shows before.

So I went and saw Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s Fleabag.

And then I shit my pants again.

It became clear to me in that theater that this person really knew what they were doing. And I did not. But I had approximately 90 days to figure it out.

I “finished” my show on the airplane ride over to Scotland.

And even then it wasn’t done and I wasn’t ready.

My show was about twenty minutes too long and I hadn’t memorized any of the lines.

I’d performed it once in New York before leaving to twelve people (more on audience size later!) and did well but looked at my script pretty much the whole time.

None of that shit mattered in the end though because I found my way.

I marked up my script until it was basically just a bunch of black scribbles on the page. I booked out a rehearsal room and rehearsed to myself the three days leading up to my first show. I marked it up more. I panicked. I held my script on stage the first week.

And then slowly, day after day, I needed the script less and less, until finally, I chucked it in my bag backstage.

I wasn’t ready. You never fucking are. Get over it and do it anyway.


It’s always good to lower expectations.

I know that sounds like something I wouldn’t say, but hear me out for a sec.

I didn’t go to Fringe thinking I’d be the next Phoebe Waller-Bridge. She started out there, as a lot of celebrities have. Her one-woman show Fleabag was turned into a hit TV show and propelled her into big bad-ass movie roles and international fame.

As much as I wanted to entertain that fantasy for myself, I didn’t want to go there. That was a lot of pressure for someone who was literally still completing the show the day before the first performance.

After doing some light research and hearing from other performers that Fringe was a slog, I decided I would just survive it.

On a very basic level, I would be alive by the end of it.

That sounds pretty apocalyptic, but you should read these Fringe blogs these days, my god.

And they’re all true.

“It’s expensive.”

“It’s hard.”

“It’s rewarding.”

“It’s not rewarding.”

“It was totally worth it.”

“It ruined my life.”

All these things and more have been said about the Fringe and they happened to all of us. Sometimes I felt all these things at the same time.

“And so it goes.”


I did better than I thought (but actually).

My plan was to survive, right. And in my opinion I barely hauled my decrepit bones out of the trenches.

It turns out I did exceptionally better than I realized at the time.

The average Fringe audience is three people. Yes. 3. 1-2-3 human beings.

Why so wee?

8,000 shows and 500 venues in the course of a month, that’s why so wee.

So the struggle wasn’t so much getting accepted to the festival, but actually bringing a crowd and also everything else.

And it was exceptionally difficult for me considering my “venue” and time slot, arguably the worst combination to exist in Fringe.

I put “venue” in quotes because it was actually just a fucking warehouse built in god knows what century with sewage issues and faulty lighting. And I’m not talking the cool, hipster kind either.

The first time I hauled my brain up to my room in the building I thought someone had surely been murdered there. If not, multiple people. Maybe this was where those cults all committed suicide at the same time in the 70s.

It was fucking bleak.

And here was the glorious location of my one-woman show. In a squat little room with a makeshift stage with a gaping hole in the back (that I promptly fell off of), forty dusty old office chairs, and two desk laps for stage lights.

This is surely where dreams (and people) go to die, I thought.

My first show I had an audience of 4. The next day I had 10. And then for the duration of the run I had anywhere from 2-8 people until my last show in which I had 15.

I really thought this was a failure until I remembered the average.

And considering my “venue” I was actually shocked when anyone came in at all without turning and running in the opposite direction.

One time the lights in the whole building were still off when I came in ten minutes before showtime. I opened the door to the room to find a 20-something couple happily waiting for me in pitch darkness.

HOW DID YOU FIND ME HERE.” I said like I was on some true crime show.

I also got two 4-star reviews, a “Very Good Show” rating, features in two medical journals, and a mention in a newsletter for the biggest brain injury group in the UK. I got compared to Amy Poehler.

And I never had to cancel a show due to lack of a crowd.

The “venue” did close down for a day due to a backup of sewage…ohhhh THAT was fun! Try explaining that to a hopeful audience member!

“Hey do you want to see my show tomorrow?! You can’t see it today because they are currently pumping literal turds out of the building but I promise it will be all sorted tomorrow! I just got a 4-star review that says I’m charming AF!”

It took me a while to see just how well I did. It certainly didn’t feel that way. I kind of doubted Queen Amy had ever performed in such a grim place. I brought 72 books to Scotland thinking I’d sell out no problem. I sold 15. Again, that’s actually fucking great. But playing the numbers game can really make you question your worth and success.

I also had an epic stress-induced meltdown about two and a half weeks into the festival. It was after our family dog Tucker passed away rather unexpectedly and I was having a really hard time.

Keep in mind that Tucker is actually in my show. Multiple times.

I even impersonate him.

And I had to do that shit every fucking day knowing he was gone without bursting into tears.

I’m a god damn champion.

But finally I broke. And when I did, Mom and Dad were on Skype to listen to me blubber about how hard it was and that it wasn’t fair and he wasn’t supposed to die and nobody was giving a shit about me or my “art” in my stupid fucking “venue” every damn day ̶

I was crying so loud that my lovely hosts Laura and Doug came in and asked if I was OK and came to chat with me, bless their fucking hearts.

“Honestly,” Laura said in her posh British accent. “I’m surprised you didn’t break sooner. I’m exhausted and I’m not even in the festival.”

I loved that she said that. It showed me just how resilient I was and am still.

I didn’t just survive. I crushed.


I’m a really fucking good storyteller.

I can’t say I ever felt exceptionally talented at acting at a young age. I certainly never professionally trained or got some fancy degree. I loved the stage, but I never really got the roles I wanted and always felt bitter or jealous about someone else’s level of skill or naturally straight, fluff-free hair.

Well, good news is that when I did my one-woman show the cast was me, myself, and I!

And from what I’ve heard (cuz I obviously haven’t seen a lot myself lol), one-person shows can be utter disasters if the person isn’t at least marginally talented at storytelling, acting, and so on.

I guess it helps that I’ve been writing, telling, and molding this story for five years in as many mediums as is allowed per person*

*How many art-forms are you allowed to dabble in before you sound like a psychopath? I mean, come on, we all know Steve the DJ-podcaster-playwright-clown-poet-chef is out of his damn mind.

When it came time to write the actual script for the show I propped the book up on my knees and went through and basically found all the parts I liked that I thought could look funny on stage. When I was feeling exceptionally lazy I even plagiarized myself (HA…take THAT English teachers of my past!).

But you can’t just read a book on a stage and call it a one-woman show. That’s called a book reading. And those are awful no matter who the fuck you are.

So this required a bit of craftswomanship. And the help of two directors I hired to listen to my really lengthy and confusing script for several weeks until I figured out what the hell I was trying to say (Thank you Neal and Ilana!)

Eventually I did.

And the result was an entire month (except for The Shit Evacuation Day) of performances where I emptied my heart on that “stage” and made people feel things; laughter, tears, hope, fear, all of it.

I did that.


A lot of people wanted to talk to me (and some didn’t).

I wish I would have worn a Go-Pro strapped to my head because man did I get some interactions to write home about!

I wish I could remember all of them. I would say 3 out of every 10 were just drunk people fondling me.

But those other 7/10 tended to very fulfilling interactions.

Lots of therapists. Some nurses. PhD candidates. A science journalist. Terrified or curious children. A pack of about 20 Asians who watched me deliver a ladybug safely off my brain and onto a nearby leaf. It was quite the performance piece, I must say.

But truthfully, I had the most amazing conversations wearing that thing. When drunk dudes weren’t shouting at me that I looked like a giant ballsack, I really had quite a good time.

A lot of people wanted to tell me about their own brain injuries or the injuries of friends or family of theirs. Some had passed. Some survived. All had stories. They wanted to share something with me over this big weird brain. Even though several layers of spray painted foam separated me from these complete strangers, I felt closer to these people than I ever thought possible.

It made schlepping the damn thing around all the time worth it. It really did.

I mean I could have done without the drunk girl grabbing it from the ground behind me and trying to put it on her fucking head, but we’re all just lucky I’m not in a Scottish jail for first-degree murder cuz bitch, YOU TOUCH MY BRAIN I WILL SMACK YOU SO HARD YOU WILL TASTE LAST FRINGE FESTIVAL.


Shipping a giant foam brain to the states while you travel around the world is not cheap.


I don’t want to talk about it, OK.


But you know what it was worth it cuz I anticipate being YouTube famous in approximately a few weeks cuz someone finally caught my sexy brain on camera and he’s some big YouTuber with a million followers or some shit.


We made it, Mom and Dad.

Sorry I had to leave the hockey bag in Scotland. I’ll pick out a nice one for Dad and give it to him for Christmas and I promise I won’t also leave that one in Scotland.


Travel is the fuel for the soul.


I’ve seen some really cool shit. I touched the stones from Outlander, the Direwolves from Game of Thrones, and oddly enough, Neal Patrick Harris.

And outside of the all the usual tourist suspects, I’ve experienced some amazing things in the past few months that have revitalized and simultaneously exhausted me. It’s still a lot to process and I don’t know that I’m fully there yet.

I traveled to 4 countries over the course of 48 days. I’ve been on planes, buses, trains, boats, ferries, bikes, and just today, a motorized scooter around the Eiffel Tower. I had haggis in Scotland, a croissant in France, and choked down a Guinness in Ireland. I’ve danced the “Ceilidh” and given my number to multiple handsome street musicians. I saw Riverdance. I saw A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Shakespeare’s Globe theater. I saw Banksy’s artwork. I’ve been rocking the same three outfits since the end of July and still getting cute Instagram pics. I’ve fallen off stages and curbs. I’ve lost and gained weight. I covered a spot of barf on a stairwell with a picture of my own face. I mourned the loss of a furry family member. I made some money and spent some money. I haven’t sent a single god damn email.

I feel fucking amazing.

Got to go now. Been at this cafe near the Eiffel Tower for a bit now and I think it’s high time I find a sandwich and hop back on my lil’ scooter.

Keep traveling. Keep crushing, friends.

On my way to steal yo’ man from 1745…

On my way to steal yo’ man from 1745…



An Open Letter to My Boyfriend, New York City, on Our 2 Year Anniversary

#mancrusheveryday #BAE #howsweetitistobelovedbyyou

#mancrusheveryday #BAE #howsweetitistobelovedbyyou

Hey Babe,


I know I could have just sent a text once I got off the subway, but I wanted to write a little note instead. You left your laundry card jammed in a tube sock again, silly goose! You’re so funny when you hide things from me. But seriously. Knock that shit off ;)

Anyway, not sure if you remembered that today is our 2 year anniversary of being together. I didn’t put it in your Google Cal because I was hoping you’d remember. And last year we didn’t really get to celebrate because my phone fell out of my pocket on the street and got stolen and taken to the Bronx Zoo. Remember that, Babe! We have fun, don’t we!

I guess you did give me a gift of sorts today. Bleeding heels and a nice blister. That’s what I get for wearing these new fancy sneakers without socks, huh Babe! I think you were trying to be funny. A little #TBT to when we first started dating and all the shoes I brought to the city were trashed within the first week. Then I got smart and bought a pair of ~white!~ Nikes. They’ve stood the test of our relationship, but I was ready for something new, you know?

See that’s kind of why I’m writing this letter.

Hey, don’t jump to conclusions, Babe! I’m not breaking up with you, oh God no!

I just, um, need a little break.

Call it a vacation if that helps. I mean technically it’s for work. And also pleasure. But trust me when I say distance will indeed make the heart grow fonder!

Babe, don’t worry, OK. I’ll only be a Facetime away. 

But before I go, I just wanted to remind you of all the beautiful and crazy times we’ve had these past two years together. Life-changing and formative, maybe a little insane at times. And definitely unforgettable. I hope these memories can soothe your worries while I’m away…


In no particular order:

  • Sneaking into a VIP tent at OzyFest with Mary, seeing Passion Pit in the best seats in the house, and coming home with bags full of beer and wine spritzers

  • Walking into Buzzfeed, asking for “Dan” and promptly being told to leave the premises

  • Getting drunk on a rotating couch carousel with Vanessa on Cinco de Mayo

  • Long runs to Prospect Park

  • Writing a blog about how to winterize pipes and getting paid $20

  • Wandering Greenwich Village my first week with you, sweating through my white blouse, drying it out with the hand dryer in the bathroom, and trying to find a company I had an interview with which, according to the doorman, “didn’t exist”

  • Getting punched in the face on the 2 multiple times at 1 AM while 15 people watched and did nothing

  • Tap Dance Festivals with K-Dog

  • Reading old letters from my students and missing them

  • Building an IKEA bed and nearly losing a finger with a power tool

  • Losing lots of headphones, sunglasses, and hair ties

  • Falling down a flight of stairs wearing heels for the first and last time

  • Reading the email that my book was getting published at Grand Army Plaza and bursting into ugly tears

  • Taking my first UCB Intensive in the summer of 2015 before we got together

  • Crying looking a the seals at the Central Park Zoo when I was going through a breakup

  • Doing my first stand up set in NYC that summer and being called a “headliner” which actually just meant I was the last name to get called out of a bucket

  • Dreaming about you sometimes while I was in a windowless classroom getting heckled by teenagers

  • Getting booked on my first comedy show at Broadway Comedy Club

  • Starting a podcast shortly after learning what a podcast was

  • Going to Carnegie Hall with Jill Bolte Taylor

  • Dad getting cancer in his mouth and then getting it taken out safely

  • Losing my cellphone then learning that it was stolen and taken to the Bronx Zoo

  • Long runs to Domino Park (and our weekly Puppy and croissant visits!)

  • Getting spit on (last week) by an angry man in Brooklyn

  • Starting an awesome community of brain injury survivors with people I now consider my closest friends

  • Bingeing Outlander with Mom back in Colorado

  • Whoring out all my friends to come to my bringer shows

  • Working for a cool science rapper

  • Moving to Flatbush in Ubers

  • Sharing prosciutto with Bill Nye the Science Guy

  • Being crippled by anxiety and crying while making Vegan tacos

  • Writing a TV pilot

  • Going on a shake diet for 30 days

  • “Brain Buddy” calls

  • Getting catcalled on the way to the Women’s March

  • Emptying my bank account after buying new glasses

  • Buying my “New York backpack” with Mom at the mall before moving which turned from white to brown within six months

  • Talking to “Park Jesus” a.k.a. Sugar Ray Leonard at Prospect Park

  • Crying in WeWork cubbies my first few months with you during my internship every single day

  • Sunburns

  • Having my face held by a doctor and told I didn’t have double vision

  • Moving into a commune in Brooklyn and becoming the House Mom

  • Interviewing for promising jobs and getting none of them

  • Discovering FreshDirect and FoodKick

  • Spending my 401-K (or at least what I’d been able to acquire in 2 years)

  • Losing my healthcare

  • Getting accepted to perform a one-woman show at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival

  • Trying to get cast in an alcohol commercial set to tape in the Bahamas and failing

  • José the Cab Driver buying me a slice of pizza after breaking up with a guy at JFK

  • Surprising Mom and Dad when I came to Denver for a TEDxMileHigh audition

  • Driving a Uhaul through Brooklyn (twice) and hitting a parked van (once)

  • Summertime Adventures with Gage, Lafe, and Henry

  • Discovering Smorgasburg for the first and not the last time

  • Friend weddings

  • Watching The Handmaid’s Tale

  • Discovering Almond Croissants

  • Gazing up at the Rockefeller Christmas tree after getting laid off right before the holidays

  • The Catskills that one time

  • Watching Game of Thrones Finale with Mary

  • First keynote at Brain Injury Alliance of Colorado

  • Reckless Theater Improv shows before it was canceled

  • Going to Ellis Island with a boy scout troupe and K-Dog

  • Signing my first author contract in the kitchen of the commune

  • Getting friend-dumped by several friends via snail mail, in person, and ghosting my podcast

  • Free Yoga classes

  • Meeting Josh Groban (and proceeding to get punched in the face)

  • TED Talk submissions

  • Sitting in a Burger King in Brooklyn, calling every friend I knew until one picked up so that I could weep uncontrollably

  • Learning that my best friend was pregnant while roped to a charger behind a trashcan in a Starbucks in Midtown

  • Going home for the holidays

  • Live podcast recordings at science museums and contests

  • Being on TV a couple of times

  • Moving my books from the bottom self to the best-seller table at every Barnes and Noble

  • Buying a floor-length parka after weeping in the street during our first winter

  • Teaching a group of adults how to do stand up comedy for the first time

  • Getting my tongue impaled by the only dentist I could afford

  • Bringing tea bags into coffee shops and asking for hot water

  • Going on a date to a Rite-Aid on Valentine’s Day with a weirdo

  • Selling out all my books at a Barnes and Noble in Salt Lake City and playing with Lexi’s kitty

  • Befriending a pair of adorable Chileans while they were on vacation

  • Getting ghosted by my personal trainer

  • Watching my friends pass out on my kitchen floor from exhaustion after their first visit

  • Sunsets on the Brooklyn Bridge

  • Losing an audio recording interview with 4X best-selling author Sam Kean…then getting it back 48 hours later

  • Buying Dr. Scholl’s inserts for all my shoes.

  • Meeting Jim Gaffigan and personally handing him a signed copy of my book

  • Working at a Matcha tea place for like 2 months then getting fired for being on my laptop when there were no customers around

  • Trying to see fireworks on July 4th and getting stuck in a mob of one million sweaty people instead

  • Apartment hunting with Joy and Simone in Brooklyn

  • Being overloaded by stimuli every single day

  • Sneaking in a full bag of rosé to The Head and The Heart concert, getting lost in Queens, and crying in an Uber Pool with Mary

  • Blowing the roof off my book launch party a.k.a. Mimi’s Brain Carnival Extravaganza

  • Shooting a music video and successfully running a light and sound board at an off-Broadway theater

  • Sprinting for the LIRR and missing it by literally five seconds multiple times

  • Wineries by myself in Long Island

  • Going on anti-depressants

  • Running two half marathons

  • Going on a handful of awful Tinder dates and calling it quits entirely

  • Meeting Emilia Clarke in a hallway

  • Cutting my own bangs

  • Being a finalist at the Werk It Women’s Podcasting Festival

  • Almost getting investigated by child protective services after picking up a stupid roommate in the ER and being suspected of running a drug ring

  • Having my Blue Apron boxes stolen off my porch

  • Getting my first author check for $750 dollars

  • Clubbing with roommates and dancing like a weirdo and getting zero free drinks

  • Wasting weeks of my life stuck underground in subway delays

  • Raising approximately $4,500 from friends and family for my book launch and Fringe Kickstarter

  • Which leads me to…

  • Having food poisoning from Chipotle Tofu (today)

I know I’m probably missing a lot, but these were some of the moments that jumped out at me like the Pizza Rats on the subway. They stick to my memory like the gum sticks to my shoes.

It’s been a fucking wild ride, Babe.

And I’m in it for as long as the arches of my feet can stand walking 10,000 steps a day.

I can’t say for sure how long that will be, my love, but just know that you have made me who I am today: A person so lively and unafraid of chasing her dreams it sometimes scares me. And maybe that’s why you challenge me sometimes. Maybe that’s why you push my buttons and put the hardest possible paths before me.

You’re trying to see how long I’ll fight.

Well, buckle up, Babe. It’s gonna be a long ride.

I’ll send a post card when I reach Scotland!



Photo by: Via Perkins

Photo by: Via Perkins



Kick Start Your Summer with My Kickstarter!


Hello Esteemed Friends, Family, and Stuffed Animals I’ve Lined Up Along The Floor To Recite This To,

It is I, your curly-headed friend, here to tell you the latest and greatest!

As you may be aware, I’ll be headed “over the pond” in August to premiere my brand new one-woman stage adaptation of my book “I’ll Be OK” at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival!


I don’t actually know if they say that there, please forgive me kilt-clad people of Scotland.

Anyway! Like I did with my book launch, I’ll be raising funds to accomplish this spectacular undertaking. Except unlike the launch, you won’t be funding a mac and cheese food truck this time but rather a full stage production created by and starring yours truly.

This will be way fun and also way expensive, but the universe has spoken and I plan on following its instructions.

For those of you that don’t know, the Fringe Festival is the largest theater festival in the world. The world’s greatest comedians, playwrights, cabaret performers, you name it, they’re there. Hannah Gadsby, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, Daniel Sloss, Lin-Manuel Miranda, and a ton of other people I admire all got their “start” at Edinburgh. It’s where dreams get made.

And you know me! I’m a dreamer!

This truly is the next step in my career.

And because I’m what you call “extra” I’m also challenging myself to complete my TV pilot at the same time in the random chance that I meet someone at Fringe who is like “have you thought about adapting this for TV?” and I’ll be like “yuppppp” and then it would end up on Netflix or some shit a few years later.

You know, weirder things have happened.

But Netflix or no Netflix, I’m going to challenge myself to be the best performer I can be this year. I’m going to put my comedy chops to the test and do things on that stage I’ve never had the guts to do before.

Shit, I might even have to wear a helmet, it’s going to get crazy up there.

But I’m ready for it.

Or at least I will be…once you donate!

Hey there it is! The plug! Yes, it’s unfortunate! I have to ask for money. I really hate doing that. But honestly wouldn’t you rather me ask for this than show up at your door demanding drugs or something?

Anyway, the point is: I need your help.

Here’s specifically what I’ve budgeted for:

  • A flight to Edinburgh, Scotland ($704.88 USD)

  • Accommodations July 27-Sept 2 ($200 Euro staying with friend +$238 Euro Hostels = $438 WOW I AM RESOURCEFUL)

  • Venue (FREE)

  • Inclusion in Program ($328 Euro)

  • Fringe Society Registration ($10 Euro)

  • Flyer and Poster Design (~$100 USD)

  • Flyer and Poster Printing ($300 Euro, OK this one I have no idea because I could print a lot or a little, it really depends!)

  • Flyer and Poster Distribution (This will be me, probably in my brain costume to attract attention so totally FREE)

  • Production Photos (already have some nice ones but if anyone is offering $150 USD)

  • Tech Hire ($50, I basically just need someone to hit a light switch a few times)

  • Set (A chair and a microphone, wow so meta)

  • Props (Probably shipping my brain costume across the country, how much do you think that will cost or should I just try to bring it with me on the plane and see what they think about stashing my brain in the overhead bins? ~LOL~)

  • Rehearsal space (I'll probably just find a quiet corner to practice in on the street?)

  • Food (Oh yeah! Haggis and crisps ~$20+/day for 37 days = $740)

  • Director (I'd like to hire one, ~$500)

  • Insurance (What?)

  • Contingency (Had to Google this, but it's advised that you add 10% of your sum budget to the total just in case like you get hit by a bus or something terrible, please see "Insurance,” ~$332)

    Total: $3,652.96 (daaaaaang, gurl!)


Art may sometimes feel like a private activity, but it is really the community that makes or breaks creative projects like this. After all, I’m a comedian. I at least need an audience member… or two (one time there was just one and his name was Steve and he was really lovely and we both felt bad but I did make him laugh a few times so I guess it wasn’t totally a failure).

This Kickstarter has fun levels of “Rewards” that you get for donating as well. They are as follows:

$1: Special Thank You Video

I’ll shoot you a personalized video with a thank you as well as progress updates on the show!

$10: Social Media Shout Out

I’ll blow up your social media with awesome things about you or if you’re “off the grid” I’ll send you a nice postcard!

$15: Exclusive E-Books

I’ll throw you some awesome e-books: “Mimi’s Memoir Tips” and “Mimi’s Comedy Tricks” from the classes I teach in NYC!

$20: Signed copy of “I’ll Be OK”

I’ll send you a personalized copy of my book right to your door!

$50: Exclusive First Look Video + Signed Copy

I’ll shoot you a special rehearsal video of my show along with a personalized copy of the book!

$100: You’re Awesome Brain Box

I’ll send you a lovely box of goodies including Brain Swag, book, and more!

$200: Guest on Mimi and The Brain Podcast

I’ll schedule a Skype call with you for your very own guest spot on Mimi and The Brain!

And who doesn’t love prizes, amiright?

Once I hit my $1,000 goal I plan on kicking off another Kickstarter, possibly with new and improved Rewards for my donors. The closer I can get to my projected ~$3,600 the better. At the end of the summer I’ll have one more attempt to make my goal with a ticketed performance in NYC to debut the show.

And then from there it’s off to Edinburgh we go!

In addition to performing and running around a foreign city handing out flyers like a decapitated chicken in a giant brain costume, I’ll also be helping run a few other shows, picking up nanny shifts when I can, and touring up Scotland and through London for some possible speaking gigs when I’m all done.


*tribal yelling*

My chances of surviving this epic endeavor drastically improve with each dollar you donate!

And don’t worry, if you can’t donate this first round, please re-post it on your social media channels, or send it to a friend you think would be interested.

How cool would it be for you if I suddenly blew up and got that Netflix deal and you could be like “Hey I know that chick! I donated $3 to her Kickstarter! I MADE THAT SHIT POSSIBLE.”

Very cool, my friend. Very cool.

To check out the first round of my Kickstarter, please click here and feel free to share, re-post, and spread this shit like wildfire!

“Ah dinnae ken fer sure, but whit's fur ye'll no go past ye!”

Translation: “I don’t know for sure, but what is meant to happen, will happen!”


1 Comment

Creativity for Dummies


As of late, I am what you call a “Freelance” worker. Emphasis on the free. Free from the chains of corporate trenches, sure. Free from all monetary comforts, a 401-K, and healthcare benefits? Yeah, I’m free of those too.

I used to have a capital D, Day job. But that quickly became a Night job and a Weekend job and even a Shit How Long Can I Keep My Fucking Eyes Open To Enter This Last Grade job.

In many ways I loved my j-o-b as a high school teacher. I loved the kids and the weird pubescent shit they’d say all the time. I loved being in all their Snapchats and also looking like a certifiable badass when I successfully laid down the law (which I probably only accomplished like one time).

But then I did this silly thing.

I exited that licensed and seemingly “safe” job for no job. I sprinted toward the unknown which for me meant packing two bags and moving to New York City to live my creative dreams and leaving behind me a wake of panic and also all my belongings in my parent’s storage unit that I insist they can’t throw away in the event that all this falls to shit and I need to crawl back home and file for bankruptcy.

What has become of those creative dreams? Shit, y’all already know I’m ranked #1,373,092 on Amazon today! I’m sure you’re aware that my podcast got 35 downloads in the past two months! Haven’t you seen me taking 2nd place in like every contest I submit to these days!?!?

I’m being funny. I do actually think these things are cool. But you get it.

Being creative is not exactly among the ranks of highest paying or most prestigious jobs these days. And honestly, I get it. That’s exactly why I didn’t want to be a creative the second I stepped foot in New York City in 2015 for a week-long improv class.

“Those aren’t like, real jobs,” I’d scoff when somebody said I should pursue writing or comedy as I started to moonlight haphazardly whenever I happened to not be telling a 16-year-old to quit ripping my posters off the walls.

This is literally what’s wrong with society.

My rejection of “artist” as a legitimate job description is exactly why it’s so important for me to continue teaching. Y’all. We are a bunch of creative idiots. And I say that in the nicest way. But really, what the actual hell.

If you, like I, have been or currently are of the mindset that to create is to be financially and morally reckless then please have a seat and let me educate you. Please keep your hands where I can see them at all times, place your cellphone in this bio-hazard bin, and shut the hell up for the duration of my lesson.

And no. You cannot use the bathroom.

Lesson 1)  Artists do make money. Literally. They create it.

The biggest worry surrounding my trip to The Holy Land has always been money; if I have enough, how I’m going to go about getting it, and ultimately what to do when someone inevitably steals it all from my back pockets.

Other people have worried about this for me to such great excess that it began to consume me as well. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about it.

But then something crazy happened. I made some. I, Mimi Hayes the “starving artist” was suddenly not starving because I got some money to buy some slices of pizza.

How did I achieve such a miraculous feat?

I made it.

I mean OK, I didn’t like counterfeit it, OK, I’m just saying I made it meaning like something ̶

I made lots of things. I made childcare and I made blog posts about donuts and I made instructional guides on how to winterize your pipes and I made emails and I made writing classes and I made lighting cues and I made podcasts and I made entire books and I made speeches and I made comedy.

My income might not come in the form of one single paycheck every month, but I definitely made shit and got paid for it. I even have the pay stubs to prove it.

It is not your job (nor is it mine) to determine my worth based on what that dollar amount is so sit the f**k down and let’s get back to work.

Lesson 2) Being creative is fun. But not as much fun as not having daily existential crises.

Some of you in the crowd might see what I do as playtime; an endless buffet of hip comedy and author events that I go to and from without ever having to change into sensible shoes as I sip effortless on a craft-brewed latte.

If only you knew (you soon will by the end of this sentence) that most of my day is re-positioning my ass-pillow so as to not incur crampage while I fight against every distraction in my home to get a single email done.

Other days it looks different. Other days I find my “office” is actually a sweaty subway car where a homeless man is screaming and demanding I hand over my Cheetos and homeboy next to me is lighting up a blunt and all I want is five minutes of peace to construct a cohesive lesson plan for my writing class while I am running late to teach that very same writing class.

And still more, there are some days when I am tucked cozy into a sound booth, hitting buttons (seemingly at random) to make an off-Broadway show run smoothly while also planning a to-do list 37 items deep in my head for the following day.

It can be fun, what I’m doing. But it also isn’t fun. And it isn’t easy.

Which is why some people don’t do this shit.

What I show you on social media; sprinting around the city like a doofus, drinking bougie things, occasionally rubbing elbows with famous people (for the record, Bill Nye thinks I’m a redhead and we shared a plate of prosciutto that I didn’t pay for)…that’s just the highlight reel, what I choose to show people.

What you’re not seeing are all the times I’m not doing those things; all the times I am utterly hopeless and crying while eating Vegan tacos in my kitchen…oh wait, I guess I did show you that.

But really, there’s a whole inner world of fear, doubt, and creative self-sabotage that surrounds me like an ominous cloud just about every waking moment of my life. And if I’m lucky, in my dreams too.

Don’t fucking kid yourself. Being creative is uncomfortable. The only thing I can think of that is more uncomfortable than being creative is the suspected hemorrhoid I’ve been nursing for the better part of a year and a half because I don’t have health insurance. *winces, readjusts pillow*

Lesson 2.5) If you have solutions to said last paragraph please see me after class.

Lesson 3) Success is scarier than failure.

It’s a big ol’ lie. It’s not failure that we’re afraid of, OK? It never has been.

Because failure is actually what readjusts our lives. Failure is what shapes us and helps us overcome obstacles and reach new heights.

Shit, I wish I was trying to fail at something right now. That would be awesome.

No, it’s actually success that we’re afraid of. We’re so damn terrified of actually succeeding that we will go to great lengths to keep ourselves from doing so. We’ll scroll on social media and dating apps for hours on end, we’ll take naps when we’re not tired, we’ll drag our heels on projects that we could have finished months ago.


Because if we succeed then we actually have to change our lives. Our status quo would change entirely, shit we might change entirely. And that’s a scary prospect so we might as well watch one more episode or procrastinate for a few more swipes so that we don’t have to deal with that nonsense.

That is the biggest lie we can tell ourselves. That we’re afraid of failure.

No we are not.

Because obviously if you picked up a damn book or read any of my assignments you’d know that everyone who has ever been successful (scary) at anything (oo, empowering) has failed at it at least 10,000 times before.

Without those 10,000 failures that person wouldn’t be who they are today. They wouldn’t be as authentic or honest or humble and honestly who makes great shit their very first time that is just statistically improbable.

No I do not know the exact statistics. Put your fucking hand down.

Lesson 4) Creativity does not flow. Creativity is a skill and you better fucking learn it.

For the last god damn time NO I do not sit and write for eight hours of uninterrupted bliss and spew genius out of my hemorrhoided ̶ what do you mean ‘hemorroided’ isn’t a word SHUT UP I SAID ̶ out of my hemorrhoided asshole.

I’m lucky if I remembered to take my pills today much less do all that fanciness.

As I write this now in this fake classroom I have constructed out of my mind and a few crushed up Tylenol to numb my booty-pain, it is currently past midnight and I can think of about 12 things I should be doing now instead, the obvious one being sleep.

Nobody is holding a gun to my head (that I know of), I just thought maybe I should do this since I had one single, fleeting idea while in the shower a moment ago to write a blog about why it is that I can’t seem to get my creative shit together.

My “flow states” do occur from time to time, but they cannot be prepared for or predicted. They are often times like now, when I have forced myself into my pillow chair with no regard for what time it is or where I should be right now instead. I couldn’t tell you the last time I had water although a yellow note card next to me reveals I’ve consumed roughly four 17 ounce bottles as evidence of four little blue drops next to the word “Thursday.” It is no longer Thursday as it is past midnight now, making it Friday, a day that I still enjoy, more so than when I was a teacher when I’d spend the weekends wallowing in my own self pity and boxed wine.

See? There’s your fucking flow state. It’s right there in that paragraph.

Being captively in this state is not something I was born in. It’s not something I suddenly woke up with when I took on the title “writer.” It’s a skill. I l-e-a-r-n-e-d it. That’s what you do in my class, you fucking learn shit. Curse words and all.

And how do you learn shit? By making MISTAKES. Oh, I really don’t like writing in the morning, maybe I’ll try at night. Wow, I have a lot to say about the brain, why don’t I try writing more about that. Turns out writing a book takes a lot longer when you write like you’re a fat kid eating a cake over the kitchen sink so maybe with the next one I’ll try giving myself permission to write one full day a week without distractions or other responsibilities.

When y’all say you’re not creative I want to smack you with my yard stick.

It’s called “practice” look it up.

Lesson 5) Creative ideas are not random. They are parts of your soul screaming at you to pay attention to them.

Elizabeth Gilbert said it best with her book Big Magic and her podcast Magic Lessons does an even better job: Any time you feel the urge to make something, that is “Big Magic.” That is your unconscious self yearning to step into the world and create. And when you respect that calling, you become aligned in your creative self and as a consequence you end up making really dope shit.

For all y’all out there that are like, “Oh yeah, Mimi has recommended that book to me like four years ago…” WAKE UP PEOPLE YOU THINK I TALK TO HEAR MYSELF TALK.

It’s a free country, OK, but this is required reading and it will be on the test and that test is called fucking life so get with the program.

When I first read this book I started having dreams. Dreams that were so vivid and powerful that I awoke from them and immediately ran to get a piece of paper to write them down. This dream is a novel, I’d think to myself as I madly smudged the page with nonsensical dream logic. “ICE CAVES,” I shouted to my mother from a hotel room last summer. “SHE IS IN AN ICE CAVE AND SHE SEES HER FATHER DIE.”

This might sound like crazy hotel talk to you, but to me, I knew right away that it was Big Magic. And even if it took me years to capitalize, I was going to make something of these ideas.

Unfortunately, life is very good at fucking up our creative plans.

I’m too busy right now.

Work is crazy.

I just had a hemorrhoid removed.

I get it. Really I do.

But if not now, when? If not you, who? If not here, where? If not cat, dog? ̶ Opps, sorry, I got distracted. That is the main criticism on my Amazon reviews ̶

I really don’t care if you’re spiritual or not, OK back row.

What we do know is that our attention spans are short and so are our pathetic lives, so if you don’t capitalize on whatever that weird nonsense is ping-ponging around your skull right now then you can just show yourself the door ̶

*bell chimes*

Ah, perfect. Lunchtime. Take five.

Yes, I said five. What, you think Creatives have time to go for a leisurely brunch? There’s a vending machine down the hall. Knock yourself out.

Meet me back here with a fully outlined memoir about your experience being in this seminar.



1 Comment


A Broke Girl's Guide to the Galaxy: New York City Edition

I totally forgot about this gem of a film…

I totally forgot about this gem of a film…

What in the hell? It’s already February? Lemme just wipe the goo out of my eyes and flip my calendar over.

What a whirlwind of a winter. Really. It was in the single digits here in New York a week ago and my long underwear was practically becoming a new layer of my skin. Then inexplicably yesterday it was 65 degrees and I sweat through those same long underwear.

But we’re not here to talk about the weather. No. Today’s topic is all about moneyyyyy. Cash, bread, dough, coin, dolla dolla billz y’all, Benjamin’s, George’s, shit who else is on money...

If you haven’t been following my journey for the past 2+ years then welcome! I am broke.

Now I’m just going to clarify so that I don’t come off as some millennial ass-hat (I might anyway, we’ll see), but my brokeness is minimal compared to, oh, I don’t know…over 80% of the world’s population who actually live in poverty.

That being said, the past year and a half I have struggled.

I pulled my retirement money to come out here. I live in an 8x8 closet to be here. And I’ve made a lot of mistakes.

You ever see that movie, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy? Yeah, I haven’t seen it in a long time but I think this blog is going to be kind of like that. Except maybe less aliens.

Here are my top galactic hacks should you find yourself knee deep in student loan payments trying to live in one of the most expensive cities in the world:

Try having multiple jobs


As far as I’m convinced, gone are the days when you could have a single job that provided you with all the income and health benefits you could ever dream of.

Most people I know my age have 3-4 sources of income. Part of this is a shift in job culture that no longer guarantees you a job if you have a college degree. To be frank, that actually doesn’t mean shit anymore.

All that means is that now you have a heaping pile of student loan payments to prove that you spent four years taking bad notes in history seminars and doing improv with all your friends on weekends.

Because of this, you’re going to have to get diverse with that income stream. $30 bucks a month writing freelance pieces for some random website, another $250 a month teaching writing classes, a handful of $20’s every time you babysit some kids…it’s time to really double down on your New Year’s resolution to “try new things.”

Exhausted from all these jobbies? I know. I am too. That’s why I’m going to sign up for a sleep study at NYU. That’ll be a couple hundred bucks right there.

Find free shit


I know all our dads told us “there’s no such thing as a free lunch” but there actually is. It turns out that there are plenty of free things in the galaxy, specifically in New York City.

Free gym memberships?

Free alcohol?

Free foot rubs?

Yes! All of this and more can be free! How you ask?

You get crafty, of course. Did you know you can get free day and even week passes at gyms and yoga studios before enrolling? Who needs to get a gym membership at one place when you can simply sample every fancy gym in Manhattan one at a time and then never go back to those places again?

There’s also this cool thing called Class Pass that you can also get a free month of by clicking this link here. It has all kinds of day passes to gyms and fun workout classes. The coolest part? There’s even massages and other random wellness stuff on there!

You get a free month of points that you can use for different classes around your city. Yoga, Ballet, gym time, even candle-lit hot Pilates that you’d never be able to afford in this lifetime. And as long as you cancel at the end of the month you just get all those points to spend on whatever you want.

I even did a free “nap session” at the Dreamery Casper bed place with some of my points. Would I ever spend actual money to go to a swanky studio where I get my own nook, cozy sheets, and tiny samples of free skincare products while I take a 45 minute REM session in the middle of the day? No friggen way. But you better believe I’d do that kind of nonsense for free.

Oh and the key to free alcohol?

Might I suggest third-wheeling one of your friends and their beau on New Year’s and edging yourself over to the bar? Tons of bros willing to get you that Whiskey Sour in exchange for a dance or two it turns out. Then all’s you gotta do is give that friend a quick hand signal and she can swoop in for some fake emergency after you down that beverage.

This probably isn’t the nicest (or most feminist) of things to do, but it’s either that or smuggle your own shooters into the bar cuz ain’t no broke kids shellin’ out $15 for a glass of god damn wine no thank youuuuu.

Adopt a bartering mentality (a.k.a start trading shit)


You know back in the old days money wasn’t even a thing, OK.

People used to get by just on their own cunning ability to make their old crap look like a new iPhone. Want that buffalo skin your cool neighbor has? Better check your wagon for some dirty prayer beads to string together into a nice necklace!

I’m not saying you should go around throwing your belongings at people, but you should think about it in terms of economics, something I’m going to talk about now even though I barely passed my ECON 101 class in college.

It’s like this. Supply and demand. I have a supply of…um…IDEAS…and someone has a demand for ideas. A personal trainer I just met while using that free Class Pass from the last item has a supply of FITNESS AND NUTRITION SKILLS and I have a demand TO NOT BE A FAT SLOB WHO GETS TIRED WALKING UP ONE FLIGHT TO MY APARTMENT.

The capitalization was for effect, I’m not angry. But you get it, right?

If I’m so good at writing books, maybe somebody won’t necessarily pay me for that (see December’s post 11 Inconvenient Truths About Being an Author to Brighten Your Holiday) but they might want to trade me a couple of free massages for some advice on how to structure a memoir or short story.

So far I’ve only been remotely successful at this. But think long enough and I’m sure you’ll find something you have that you don’t think is that great and there will undoubtedly be someone out there who thinks that’s worth trading for. Speaking of which…

Get Some Cute Merch

If you haven’t seen my extremely more talented friend Kristen Jorden’s quilts then you need to seriously check yourself before you wreck yourself how friggen CUTE is this!

If you haven’t seen my extremely more talented friend Kristen Jorden’s quilts then you need to seriously check yourself before you wreck yourself how friggen CUTE is this!

If you don’t have anything to trade or sell, now would be a great time to put that Etsy account to good use.

My partner in crime Kristen Jorden makes stunning quilts and they basically put everything to shame. You can check out her Etsy store here and her personal website here.

It’s nice to have a book, but I don’t recommend you spending the next four to five years trying to convert your brain into a published book because that shit is way too hard. Go easy on yourself. Make some cute shit out of garden pots or something.

If you think about it. Having trinkets to sell is a solid way to have a consistent stream of baby income flowing into your pockets. It might not seem like it’s worth it when you’re slaving away with your hot-glue gun, but once you make a few dozen of those ceramic gnomes your inventory is set until you sell out!

If you’re a good crafts person and solid at marketing yourself online that could mean a week or so. And if you really suck at making things and live off the grid you’re probably good for a few decades.

Kick Your Goddamn Starbucks Habit


I know, I know. That green lady with the twelve arms is really cool but you have seriously got to knock it off!

$5 doesn’t seem like a whole lot in the grand scheme of life, but come fucking on do you understand that dirty Chai latte is burning a hole in your pocket that already has holes in it in the first place???

Think about it this way. Even one $6 (cuz you don’t drink dairy now you fancy bastard) drink even just once a week is going to cost you about $24 a month. That’s $288 a year. And if you’re up to an addictive three times a week, that $2,592 a year! Did I do that math correctly, Jesus H. CHRIST. Yes I did. I absolutely did.

Get your shit together. That green lady is lighting your precious money on fire with all twelve of her arms.

So you like coffee. We get it. But you know what you could do instead of sacrificing that $6 to American mass consumerism?

You could just buy a big can of Folgers, mmkay. Hate Folgers? Fine, spring for a knock off or something cheap and bearable. Get the vanilla flavor. Knock your fucking self out just keep it under like $10.

And then you could make your own god damn coffee and bring it to the coffee shop.

Master cheat code? Try paying attention to when the barista’s change shifts and then ask for a free (or usually $1) refill in your road mug. How the hell are they going to know you never bought a coffee in the first place?

Or if you’re worried about your morals or something switch out the coffee for tea bags and just ask for hot water. That shit is absolutely free and totally legal.

Now sit back and enjoy not having $2,592 dollars mysteriously leave your bank account every year, you coffee genius.

Go “Green” (so to speak)

Always wanted to have a lesser impact on the slowly dilapidating environment? Well now you get to!

Being broke means using less and getting thrify with things, and that includes your carbon footprint. Now you can avoid breaking your wallet held together by duct tape AND the planet at the same time.

Everything has a purpose. Half empty shampoo bottles can become mega shampoo bottles, giving you 12 new containers to use however you want! Isn’t that exciting?

This will also keep you from buying more shit that you don’t need, because chances are, you already have it lying around in the bottom of the drawers of your IKEA bed somewhere so there is literally no need to waste the money.

And hey, who knows? Maybe you can jerry-rig your toilet to be like those cool eco-toilets in Japan where the water from the sink cycles down and gets used in the toilet water…that you can sell…on Etsy!

Become a Better Cook

Thanks a million Emily Hardwick!

Thanks a million Emily Hardwick!

It’s no surprise we spend so much money on eating out. None of us can cook for shit! At least not on a consistent basis that doesn’t destroy the kitchen and all of our dishware in one fell swoop.

And nothing is more sad than lobbing off a block of cheese and Ritz Crackers at 1AM because you’re too damn tired to make an actual dinner.

I was just kind of raised that way. About once or twice a week we’d get tired of cooking and we’d all ravage the kitchen for anything we could find. We call it “Fend For Yourself” Night.”  

As a kid I thought this was kind of cool that I could eat a pint of mint chocolate chip unchecked at 10PM but now I’m starting to realize every night of my adult life has become “Fend For Yourself Night” and it’s far less exciting than it used to be.

Sure, it can be easier to motivate yourself to cook when you’ve got a significant other to help you chop the onions and shit, but you’ve really got to get better at being on your own.

I used to really love cooking for boyfriends. I kind of felt like I was fulfilling my gendered societal duty every time I pulled a casserole out of the oven for my guy. There’s a lot of things wrong with that, but mostly it’s that I was only motivated to learn how to fucking feed myself when I was in the presence of someone else.

Now that I’ve been single for foreverrrrr I think it’s safe to say I need to get my act together. Luckily I got a great Vegan cookbook from a friend for Christmas and unlike every other cookbook I’ve ever had, I’ve actually make things from it.

And if you didn’t know, I do a once a week “cooking show” on Instagram Live where I cook in a made up character, funny voice and weird backstory and everything. Sometimes my roommates end up walking into the kitchen wondering why in the hell I’m talking to myself in a terrible French accident but ask me how many fucks I give?

I give about as many fucks as I have gallons of real dairy milk in my fridge! #VegansUNITE

It’d be cool if Netflix or someone picked this up and made it into a real cooking show, but for now I’m just enjoying coming up with obscure ways to explain why I’m cooking for myself alone in my kitchen at 11PM. Usually it involves a freak accident and a dead or seriously estranged husband. One time I made Butternut Squash soup as Christopher Walken. That was one of my personal favorites.

Buy (and Cook) in Bulk

Whoever made this is a saint.

Whoever made this is a saint.

It may seem counter intuitive to drop $20 on a liter of ketchup when you’re stretched for cash, but honestly you’d be saving yourself a pretty penny if you did.

I actually don’t have a membership to Sam’s Club or Costco but my best friend in Long Island does. Most of my time spent with her is actually just going there and picking out 10-pound bags of rice that she lends me extra suitcases to take home with.

If you live in New York City and don’t drive a car, this is kind of an impossible ask. If you tried to carry all those bulk items out you might end up like that Home Alone kid and drop your groceries all over a crowded sidewalk.

But what I can tell you is that there’s an app for that. FreshDirect, Shipt, and Postmates just to name a few. When I heard about FreshDirect it absolutely changed my grocery game. You’re telling me I don’t even need to put my pants on to get some more peanut butter and toilet paper? Get outta here.

It sounds like black magic but it’s really popular in New York and other cities where it’s not common to have a car or even large chain grocery stores.

And because you’re so great at cooking now, you’ll appreciate getting those groceries quickly and easily so that you can focus your efforts on making an 8-serving risotto dish which amounts to roughly 3-4 meals for you and you only yuh little sad single person!

Cha-ching! Someone just scored some extra moolah!

Borrow Your Roommates Books

Hey thanks, Joy! This book was great! I’m so glad I didn’t have to buy it!

Hey thanks, Joy! This book was great! I’m so glad I didn’t have to buy it!

If you’re like me, walking into a Barnes and Noble is the quickest way to drain your entire bank account. Books are awesome! And I’m not just talking about my own because I guarantee you there are better books than mine out in the world.

Books can transform our worldviews. They can transport us to new places and times and like damn isn’t J.K. Rowling a fucking genius?!

However, books are expensive. And if you’re broke as shit you shouldn’t buy them.

But that doesn’t mean you can’t raid your roommates bookshelf! Don’t have a roommate? Well then GOOD FOR YOU 99% OF THIS POST DOESN’T APPLY TO YOU since I’m assuming you must be either a bajillionaire working for a Fortune 500 or in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere and you can buy an entire house with a backyard and 5-car garage for $200 a month because that’s what real estate is like there and in that case fucking congrats, man.

So go ahead, temporarily misplace your roommates book in your bedroom for a few weeks (or a few months if you’re a slow reader like me). Even better, be on the look out for boxes of free books that somehow appear on the streets of New York City every once in a while.

Use Your Families (or Exes) Netflix Accounts


I honestly don’t even know anyone who has their own anymore. And as long as they don’t change the passwords on you then you’re pretty much set for life.

And if all else fails…

Convince Yourself that Money Sucks, You are Not a Slave to it, and Your Joyful Experiences in Life Will Serve as Evidence of Your Worth


I’m still working out the details on this one, but I think it involves sticky notes that say “You’re Awesome!” taped to your bathroom mirror and truly believing that a 401(K) is just a socially constructed concept meant to trap us all in miserable jobs that suck our souls for 30+ years.

Dunno, jury’s still out on that one…

Thanks for reading! Stay thrifty, my friends.



I Refuse To Make a New Year's Resolution This Year, Here's Why

*emerges from a pile of Christmas cookies*

*emerges from a pile of Christmas cookies*

It’s January 1st* in the brand new year.

This morning at around 3 AM I broke a poor guy’s heart by leaving him at the club to go get chili cheese fries after dancing with him most of the night. I didn’t give him my number. Shit, I didn’t even give him my name.

But off I walked, into the shadows of the early morning to glorious drunk snack heaven.

Aren’t you wondering what a newly acclaimed “Vegan” is doing eating chili cheese fries at three in the god damn morning?

Does it concern you at all if I say that, despite being single for the past year, I broke two other gentlemen’s hearts this morning by not agreeing to let them buy me more drinks and dance with them?

I used to worry about shit like this. But now I’m not.

Let me just make one thing perfectly clear, OK: Fuck New Year’s resolutions.

Now, this doesn’t mean I think you are stupid for having one. You are welcome to “new year new me” yourself all the way to kingdom come for all I care.

All I’m saying is that the concept itself is Ludacris. And yes, I do mean the American rapper.


Let’s go back in a time machine real quick…you comfy back there? Good. Let’s roll.

2014 was the first year that I actually hated. It was the first time that I approached the end of the year with a desire to burn my cute Lil’ Target calendar inside a dumpster.

On one hand, I’d overcome two near-cataclysmic events in the same year: a break-up from a five-year long relationship that ended horribly, and a brain hemorrhage. Also I’d graduated college, which for me might as well have been a cataclysmic event because I almost didn’t graduate at all (LOL ask me about that Nutrition class I took that summer).

But survival was exhausting. And my emotions had been to their extremes so many times I didn’t even know how to regulate myself anymore.

What nobody tells you about having several life-changing events in one year is that you don’t really get to be the same again. You cross a threshold; of growth, of grieving. And once you step over that threshold you don’t get to go back to whatever “comfortable” life you lived before.

If that sounds dramatic to you, it’s because it fucking is.

If you don’t believe me, go to talk to the strongest person I know: my mother.

This woman has been through so much shit she’s practically an armored tank.

She’s going to call me once she reads this. Why? Because she’s my absolute biggest fan and if I ever get on Ellen someday she’s going to be crying in the front row. When I miraculously made local television this year, as the camera panned out to commercial I literally waved and mouthed “HI, MOM!”

“Don’t look at the camera.” Me:

“Don’t look at the camera.” Me:

When I arrived to December 31, 2014 I was really depressed. I was healing up nicely from my brain injury but only on the outside. My insides were still squirming with anxiety and record-breaking low self-esteem.

I was about to start my student teaching back up again and I felt a pit in my stomach drop every time I tried to pick up a lesson plan. PTSD. That’s called PTSD. I didn’t understand it then, but the classroom brought me higher rates of anxiety than normal.

Probably, oh, I don’t know, because my head exploded while trying to explain “ethnocentrism” to a couple of 14-year-old’s.

I decided to go out on the town with my best friend Brennyn so that I could do what most people do on New Year’s: get white girl wasted and pretend like my life wasn’t falling apart. I could drink alcohol again. And my doctor told me as long as I didn’t black out I was probably fine.

So I continued my trajectory to inebriation and landed myself with bloody arms (I was wearing a sequin skirt and it had scratched my arms up while dancing) in a friend of a friend’s bed drunk and kind of high, calling up my other best friend and demanding that I be her Maid of Honor if she got engaged** that night.

Do you even know what’s about to happen next in this story? Do you even understand the kind of wacky shit I’m about to tell you right now?

Here we go.

The next thing that happened was that I woke up in that stranger’s bed soaked in pee because I had just drunkenly pissed myself.

Didn’t see that one coming now did yuh?!

OK, maybe you did. Also maybe you read my book and that little juicy story is buried in there somewhere. Wow, did I just spoilers you without telling you I was gonna spoilers you right now?

I feel like that was kind of manipulative of me. But hey, if you actually read this then you must enjoy torture because literally all of these posts are ridiculous.

What was the resolution that led to this tragic event? I’ll take “What is…Stop Living Through Life-Altering Events and Having to Deal with The Emotional Fallout?” for $1,000, Alex!

As silly as that sounds, my “resolution” was to stop being me, essentially. I didn’t want to carry all that baggage with me into 2015! 2015, babay new year new-ohhhhhh, nope. I just pissed in a stranger’s bed. Same me. Wait, was I pissing in stranger’s beds before 2014? What in the actual fuck is going on here?

I’m happy to announce that I haven’t had an “incident” since. Unless you count passing out and puking at a routine blood draw every single time but I mean cut me some slack will you, pressures cuffs and bins on walls with needles in them make me lose consciousness, OK.

But that doesn’t mean my resolutions since then have been any less stupid.

There was 2016 where I vowed to get back in shape.

Also 2017 where I vowed to get back in shape.

And 2018 where I settled for being “a shape.”

Most of my resolutions in the past few years have centered on my body and changing it. I didn’t understand what this was about until recently when I remembered that my body went through a massive change in 2014 causing me to lose 20 pounds of muscle mass and gain it all back in my face, ass, and bellybutton.

I’ve also resolved to write daily, eat healthier, do more comedy, do a TED Talk, get a book published, and move to New York City.

I’ve tried all kinds of mechanisms for this change including countdown calendars, planners, writing affirmations on sticky notes and putting them around my house, and who doesn’t love a good ol’ vision board? And I’m not saying these things don’t work, because they do. Obviously a few of those things got done. And if I haven’t tried to sell you the Passion Planner then are we really even friends?

The only thing is that this change comes from within.

I know that sounds like I read it from a fortune cookie or some shit, but it’s true.

The planners and the vision boards and the resolutions can only get you so far.

It’s what you do when you’re alone that counts. What do you tell yourself when nobody is around to like your Instagram posts about your progress towards that resolution? Who is going to be there for the setbacks? How far are you willing to go to write that book or lose that weight or make that documentary? When it’s March and you’re trapped inside in a snowstorm and taking a nap or watching another Netflix show or scrolling through other people’s lives is so much easier? What are you going to give up to make a change?

Let me repeat that one more time: what are you going to give up to make a change?

We talk big talk, but when the rubber meets the road, or whatever, suddenly it’s December again and we didn’t even get so much as a chapter of our Great American Novel written. When we talk about resolutions we talk about what we’re going to get. Money, fame, the washboard abs. Nobody talks about the giving up part; the sacrifices and decisions made to make those resolutions actually resolve.

Historically speaking, I can maintain momentum with a resolution a couple of days in a row before I get distracted and derail myself because OH LOOK SHINY. WHAT’S THAT, A NEW PROJECT TO TAKE ON WITH ALL MY NON-EXISTENT FREE TIME AND SURPLUS OF MONEY? WHY YES, YES I WILL VOLUNTEER AT THAT BLIND DOG SHELTER.

We’re all like that. It’s not just me with my head injury over here flaking on resolutions left and right when we get side-tracked. January 1st rolls around and we want to change ourselves right the fuck now and right the fuck forever.

Because who doesn’t? Change is awesome. Change is what happens when a depressed high school teacher moves to New York City with nothing but a few pencil skirts and a manuscript and transforms into a slightly less depressed stand up comedian and motherfucking published author who wears mostly sweatpants and the occasional nice dress to book signings and local TV appearances.

My life is unrecognizable.

I hope my exes stalk my social media. In fact, I’m sure at least one of them does. And I can die happy knowing that he is kicking himself every time I post a juicy “look how successful I am, you SHMUCK” post on Instagram.

But change doesn’t happen overnight. And it isn’t permanent. Not for me and not for all those ex-boyfriends that ended up in my first book.

It’s 2019 and I don’t care how many “alternative facts” you’ve read today on Twitter, you know that much to be true.

I’ve seen a lot of friends achieve some amazing things this year. Some of them got married, had kids, finished Master’s degrees, climbed mountains, lost weight, and became artists.

I’ve achieved my own as well: publications, speaking tours, TED auditions, book launches, TV interviews, comedy shows, New York City hustling, Veganism. Shit did you know I cut my own bangs for a while back there? It’s been one hell of a year.

And in a sense I am still very much in progress; a process of becoming.

I refuse to reduce myself to a resolution. No, you know what I want, a revolution; a rebellion. I want to fuck shit up.

And I can’t do that with a flimsy promise to the ether to “be skinnier,” or “more successful.”

I don’t even want that. I want to be strong. So strong I can lift a fucking car over my head and still look graceful for a camera catching this viral shit go down. I want to be irrefutable. So irrefutable that people will stop at nothing to get inside my damn air bubble.

And if I really am going to get a revolution, then it’s going to take a long-ass time. I’m going to need to be strategic about this shit, get some advisers, do some homework, really dust off my suit of armor and probably get some life insurance already.

I’m going to war, basically.

I’ll fight for the life I want to live, not according to some calendar, but in the little moments that I choose to do the things that move me onward and upward.

And you know what? Some days all that means is drinking more damn water. Some days it means hiding my phone from myself so that I can write for 30 peaceful and uninterrupted minutes. Others it means letting myself eat the “non Vegan” thing instead of beating myself up for an hour over it.

And when I slip up (often), I will wipe off my bloody arms and acknowledge that the journey I’m on will challenge me to new places that I can’t even see yet. I’m going to fail and fail well, learn from my obstacles, and love myself no matter what day of the year it is.

Editor’s Notes:

*OK, I lied. It’s the 3rd. This post could have been much more timely but I figure by now at least 3/4ths of you have given up your resolutions already so it evens out.  

**This same friend just got engaged today*** and I may or may not have sent an identical voicemail to her this morning from the parking lot of a diner in Brooklyn. What can I say, some things never change.

***Two days ago.



11 Inconvenient Truths About Being an Author to Brighten Your Holiday

“Dear God-Thing, please send me a nice royalty check and some New York Times buzz…”

“Dear God-Thing, please send me a nice royalty check and some New York Times buzz…”

“Oh dang it, Mimi. Can’t you blog about something happy just once?”

Now, now, five of you reading this but mostly my mother, calm down.

I know this headline might have you believe that I’m about to throw a pity party for myself with a big ol’ sad piñata, but that’s not the case. I don’t even have the kind of confetti needed for that sort of thing, OK MOM.

Really I’m just here to process, as always, the strange and challenging parts of my life on a page that I will upload to the internet so that everybody else can look at it and not me. Because that’s how this whole thing works, mmkay? Which leads me to…

Truth #1) You are going to fixate on all the weird shit in your head until you put it on paper (or in my case, word doc).


It’s not an exact science, but authors are really just creative lunatics hidden under a bunch of trench coats and fancy detective pipes.

We have one million ideas a day (not unlike the everyday person), except our thoughts become full-blown screenplays, memoirs, and novellas. It’s exhausting, if you ask me, which you didn’t, but anyway.

When an author truly relieves themselves on the page it’s like inhaling a really good candle, or peeing after you’ve been holding it in for a whole day.

If this sounds like a lot to process then…

Truth #2) You better get yourself some damn therapy.


I went to therapy one time. OK a few times. It was in 2016 at the start of my second year of teaching and I was in a particularly tough spiral downward after a breakup. I remember going in the first visit and having to answer these questions on a little electronic block about how much alcohol I drank and if I was attempting to jump in front of a bus anytime soon.

I kind of felt like therapy was something other people did. Messed up people. But sure enough the second I sat on “the couch” I burst into tears about approximately one billion things that were flying around in my broken head.

I told the nice lady about my book that wasn’t really a book yet and that I was really traumatized still by being in a classroom and by the time I left for New York City I don’t even think we skimmed the surface of all my B.S.

And that’s OK. Because someday I’m going to have a grown up job with grown up healthcare and that will be the very first thing on my list of awesome grown up things to accomplish.

Truth #3) You are going to bankrupt yourself on your first book release.


The images you had of swimming in bathtubs of all the money you’re about to make from your best-seller turned Hollywood blockbuster can stay safely tucked inside that delusional brain of yours because that’s just not gonna happen.

In fact, you will be spending your own money, and a lot of it. So much so that you will have to start a GoFundMe page* and frantically bother every single person you know to donate to your extravagant book launch party.

Did you really need that mac and cheese food truck? Yuh know what, no, you did not. But nobody gets mad at a bride for picking a three-story wedding cake shaped like the statue of David, OK?

You enjoyed the fuck out of those three bites of mac and cheese that you inhaled in between signing 100 books back to back to back to back…

*Thanks again everyone who donated! I thought about sending each one of you individualized thank you cards but then I got really overwhelmed and didn’t….so THANKS!

Truth #4) You are now a salesperson.


Surprised? Oh yes, I bet you are. Skills you don’t really possess, like convincing someone to purchase an intimate story about your life, will now be entirely necessary if you plan on selling any books at all.

Frustrating? Completely.

Me: “Hey there! Would you like to look at this story I wrote about my miraculous recovery from a traumatic brain injury?”

Lady: “Oh, that’s nice. I was kind of looking for a cookbook though.” *walks away*

What am I gonna do? Follow her around the damn Barnes and Noble and continue to shove my little blue-green cover in her face? That’s just not my vibe, yo.

It was the vibe, however, of the other author I was sharing the signing with on the opposite side of the store. He’d shout “WHO’S YOUR FAVORITE AUTHOR?” and point his finger at his book aggressively until that person walked toward him, which I guess is one way to go about annoying the shit out of everyone you meet. To his disappointment, three of my friends walked through that entrance and immediately said “MIMI HAYES.” He pointed sadly to the other side of the store, “She’s over there…

He may have been the more aggressive salesperson. But I have friends. Speaking of which…

Truth #5) Your friends and family won’t leave you Amazon Reviews.


Now I know about nine of you are like, “HEY I LEFT YOU A REVIEW” and I am so happy that you love me on that level. But the truth is, even your closest friends (and even your Mom!) might not get around to that glowing 5-star review in time for you to not lose your shit every time you refresh your Amazon page.

Why do reviews matter? Well, if you’re me, your book is about something very personal and traumatic that you oddly chose to share with the entire world with an accessible bookstore or WiFi connection. This means that every time you see a nice paragraph about your work, your art, you feel so happy and full that you could die in that moment and be totally OK with that.

The inverse is also true because when you don’t get reviews, especially from your friends, you interpret that as your friends not caring, which you know isn’t true but it still stings your mushy human organs. “I can’t believe they don’t even bother, it’s a paragraph, how hard can it be?!” Well, time for a reality check tootsie roll because…

Truth #6) Your book is not the most important thing in the world.


I know, I know. This is a hard pill to swallow, you literary genius! Just because you spent four whole years hiding in dark corners of coffee shops and scribbling chapter headings on note cards and tacking them all over your apartment like a literal sociopath, doesn’t mean anyone else is going to give a damn.

Now that’s not to say your mother won’t call you a, AND I QUOTE, “powerhouse” over the phone on multiple occasions.

That’s not to say your best friend won’t follow you around at your book signing and snap candids of you penning your John Hancock all over a stranger’s book.

But you must understand that this is your life. And everyone else has their own life which probably doesn’t include you pretty much most of the time.

You are allowed to be proud of your work and it feels really great when others express that too, but sit down, stay humble, Kiddo.

Truth #7) Your publicist is (probably) dead.


Contrary to what the movies may have lead you to believe, publicists are not snatching at the back of your ratty coattails looking for every opportunity along the way for you to make it big. In fact you’re not entirely sure what your publicist’s name is because they only emailed you that one time over a year ago and you kind of haven’t heard from them since.

[ooOOoOOo sPoOkY]

Truth #8) Everything you get, you will work for.


Due to Truth #7, you’re going to have to work extra hard to get any attention for your book. You will call up magazine editors, cold-email conventions to speak at, and haul a suitcase of your own books to a signing at a Barnes and Noble that you asked for and nearly didn’t get because the other author was booked months before and they didn’t order your books in time.

You are going to appear on local TV channels and interview with international radio stations not because of someone else, but because of you.

Truth #9) Everyone is going to underestimate you.


If you got paid in the amount of times people asked you if you’re self-published you’d be a god damn millionaire by now.

This isn’t to say that self-publishing is shameful. It’s actually probably way easier to navigate than traditional publishing. But the assumption underneath “you’re self-published, right?” is that surely you couldn’t have a legitimate publisher, because that’s incredibly hard to do.

Everyone thinks it’s cool that you wrote a book, but few people will piece together the fact that you built everything you’re standing on.

It won’t be until you fill a gallery full of your closest friends and family during your launch that people will start voicing their surprise at your work ethic and commitment to finding the best mac and cheese food truck in the Denver Metro.

“Wow, I had no idea,” they’ll say as you squiggle your name on their book nonchalantly like you didn’t just sell your first unborn child for that food truck back there.

As annoying as this can be, especially while you’re putting in all the backbreaking work to an audience of none, this will actually play out in your favor down the line as you become a walking cliché underdog narrative.  

Truth #10) You are going to lose friends in the process.


Somewhere down the line of writing your first book, you’re going to start a separate file called “Acknowledgements” thanking all your friends and family for supporting you during this whole grueling ordeal. You’ll list as many people as your editor will allow and include exactly how those people helped you get this stupid word document made into a full-blown book.

After the book comes out, you’re going to notice that a few of your friends in that very word document are not responding to your text messages and phone calls anymore, which makes you the saddest schmuck ever.

You’ll text them some more, leave a slew of teary voicemails, and eventually write and publish a whole think-piece about one said ex-friend which she will probably never see anyway but at least you let some shit off your chest for a second until the next friend inexplicably dips out of your life.

The good news is, the ones that stick around are fucking awesome and will never stop supporting your crazy ass no matter what you do.

Truth #11) Even though being author feels like being on a roller coaster with a broken off-switch most days, you wouldn’t choose any other job in the world.


Why 11 Truths? Because 11 is an extremely frustrating number.

And you’ve closed your eyes at 11:11 PM and wished for Michael McToddferson, (or whoever the hell you’re obsessing about at the current moment) to kiss you for no damn reason in math class tomorrow too many times with zero positive outcomes to have any respect for the number eleven.

But more importantly…

On days when you’re knee deep in a sticky chapter rewrite or hammering your head against a wall because you can’t seem to focus on a single manuscript for more than five minutes at a time, you’ll flash back to that little windowless classroom.

You’ll see a fleeting image of you crying in the teacher’s lounge in between classes or stepping in the world’s largest wad of gum while simultaneously slamming your toe on the corner of a desk and you’ll think, “I’m so glad I’m not back there.

Because even in your darkest days, you are capable of transferring your woes into words. And those words matter. Maybe not to everyone. But they matter. And so do you.

So quit refreshing that damn Amazon page, you psychopath, and finish your next book already!




I Had My Tarot Cards Read For the First Time and Pretty Much Lost My Damn Mind

My face when a deck of cards tells me about my life…

My face when a deck of cards tells me about my life…

Okay, okay, everyone stop what you’re doing right now. Put down the pastry or po-go stick or small child you’re holding and listen to this.

I am freaking the fuck out, mmkay.

And not because Oprah or Spielberg called to deliver contracts for my movie rights.

I am freaking the fuck out because I just had my Tarot cards read this week, all right. And boy was it a doozy. Like the kind of doozy that makes you write blog posts about while you listen to the hum of a washing machine as three little angels sleep in their beds instead of passing out from pure exhaustion covered in stickers and macaroni noodles.

That’s right. The kids are asleep, the kitchen’s clean, and I’m ready to get into this shit.

But before I take you on the epic quasi-acid-trip that was my tarot reading, I’d first like to point out a couple of key details to this story.

  1. I have never had my tarot cards read in my life.

  2. I have never had interest in having my tarot cards read in my life.

  3. I still don’t know what a tarot is.

  4. But I think it’s a small animal of some kind.

In the past week I have discovered “Bumble Bizz,” a much cooler side of the classic dating app Bumble. I’d never noticed it before, but I swiped over to find one million professionals of all kinds of industries at my swipey little fingertips. Way cooler than trying to make a myriad of Steve’s, Chad’s, and Tyler’s more interesting than they actually are. Oh, your profile says you’re 6ft1, how fascinating!


I switched over to the Business side and quickly adjusted my profile to read “Seeking Ted Talks and Brain Gigs. LMK if you want to make my book into a movie” and began the ol’ swiperoo.

Within minutes I’d found a potential new student for my weekly writing class, neuroscientists that I wanted to interview for my podcast, and a lovely woman who was offering discounted Tarot readings.

Who doesn’t love a discount, amiright?

I guess the last time I’d heard the word ‘tarot’ was in the movie Ghost. I think there were tarots in that movie, right? Maybe it was just Whoopi Goldberg doing a séance when Patrick Swayze shows up and says she’s full of shit.

Well, as curious as I may be, I definitely didn’t believe in spiritual mumbo-jumbo like tarot cards any more than I believed Beatle Juice would show up in my livingroom if I said his annoying name three times.

But for whatever reason I right-swiped on this Tarot Reader and quickly messaged her to tell her I was game. We exchanged numbers and I picked my favorite coffee shop near the Brooklyn Museum to meet up in broad daylight. No dimly lit basements or side alleys for me, okay, I’m not a moron.

So I get to the coffee shop early and set up shop with a little notepad to record my thoughts pre-tarot. Here I am waiting to have my future told! I scribbled. I’m so excited! Although I was skeptical about the whole thing, I was still excited to hear thoughts on my life. It was way better than getting catfished, I decided.

A lovely Latina-looking woman roughly my age greeted me and I was immediately drawn to her energy, literally, I got out of my chair and squished around the crowded tables to give her a hug. She looked like a friend I’d known for years, or maybe in a past life, if I believed in that sort of thing, which I probably didn’t. But she was just so adorable.

We walked through what the cards did and didn’t do…

They can open up channels within you.

They cannot predict your future.

They can reveal things on your mind or in your life that you’ve been suppressing.

They cannot tell you when or how you’re going to die.

I was a little fixated on the death thing, probably because it’s that time of year and it would be so cool to know the year in which I’m finally allowed to shed my gooey human body and fuck with all my friends and enemies as a ghost.


She asked me to shuffle the deck in any way I chose. So I scrambled them around for a good minute or so, repeating back to her that the cards do not actually predict death.

Then she placed the deck to my left and gracefully pulled them to the right of the counter, making a perfect line between us. For some reason I expected her next move to be to pull one randomly from the deck and shout, “IS THIS YOUR CARD?” But she didn’t. Instead she asked me what I wanted to ask the cards.

Ask them?” I clarified.

“Yes, ask them something you’d like to work out in your life that you are unsure about right now.”

“Ask them…ask them…” I hadn’t really prepared any questions for the session. I kind of thought she’d be doing all the work. “Oh, I got it! Can I ask them about my art? I want to know…like am I going to be successful at my art actually or am I just going to be a flash in the pan and not be relevant at all?”

Yes, it’s been weighing on me. Since releasing my first memoir and discovering it behind a ladder this week in Barnes and Noble, far from any wandering eyes to possibly find, I’ve been wondering if I’m truly going to become the author I want to be.

Do you guys know how many books there are in the world? Just think about that for a second, okay. Just think about how unlikely it really is that my little blue-green cover will make its way out of the slush pile of J.K. Rowling’s, Roxanne Gay’s, and apparently, Tim Tebow’s.

Yes. You guys. Tim Tebow is even writing books now. Or he pays someone else to and gets his face plastered all over them. And he gets his own fucking table at Barnes and Noble.

This title is like a motivational poster threw up all over the cover…

This title is like a motivational poster threw up all over the cover…

Where is the justice in the world, hmm?

New York Times Best-Seller?

Can somebody explain to me what the actual fuck is going on here?

All right, I’m calm.

Back to the cards.

She asked me to pull three cards with my left hand. Why the left hand, you ask? Yeah, I asked about that too. I forgot what she said but it was something about the heart’s connection to the brain. I’ll look it up later.

I pulled them a little apprehensively, after all I didn’t want to come this far to pull shitty cards. I’d just asked if I was going to be a best-seller or toil into a career as a has-never-really-been. I chose the cards one at a time, making sure to pick the first ones I laid my eyes on and not second-guess myself.

Here’s what I pulled:

The Master:


“The Master in Zen is not a master over others, but a master of himself. His every gesture and his every word reflect his enlightened state. He has no private goals, no desire that anything should be other than the way it is. His disciples gather around him not to follow him, but to soak up his presence and be inspired by his example. In his eyes they find their own truth reflected, and in his silence they fall more easily into the silence of their own beings.”

”The master welcomes the disciples not because he wants to lead them, but because he has so much to share. Together, they create an energy field that supports each unique individual in finding his or her own light. If you can find such a master you are blessed. If you cannot, keep on searching. Learn from the teachers, and the would-be masters, and move on. Charaiveti, charaiveti, said Gautam Buddha. Keep on moving.”

She explained: In order to be successful at my art, I need to be the Master of it. 10,000 hours, all that shit, mmkay. I didn’t tell her I was a writer or a comedian but she told me whatever my art was, I need to take it seriously and get. to. fucking. work. I need to live an breathe it. Why? Because I’ve got “disciples” now, all right. I’ve got people gathering around me listening to what I have to say. And not only that. What I say, or as the card would tell me, what I don’t say (i.e. “silence”) is helping others understand who they are. Holy fucking shit, you guys.

Also: Can we just talk about the Sanskrit word “charaiveti” for a second? I had to look this up, but when I did my brain literally walked out of the room for a smoke break that’s how overwhelmed with emotions it was, okay.

Chara = moving

Eva = alone; only

Iti = Thus

It is said that Buddha concluded his sermons with “Charaiveti, Charaiveti”, or “keep moving, keep moving,” which is part of a larger phrase:

“The honey bee, by its motion, collects honey, and birds enjoy tasty fruits by constant movement. The sun is revered, by virtue of its constant shining movement; therefore, one should be constantly in motion. Keep moving, keep moving on!”

If you need some context as to why I’m flipping out right now, which you likely do: I am so constantly in motion my parents literally say “that one, she’s always moving, always got her hair on fire.” So for me to draw this card which is to become constantly in motion and to become the master of my art so as to inspire others, well, I’m shook to say the least.

Let’s charaiveti, shall we?

I also pulled…

Clinging to the Past:


“The figure pictured in this card is so preoccupied with clutching her box of memories that she has turned her back on the sparkling champagne glass of blessings available here and now. Her nostalgia for the past really makes her a 'blockhead', and a beggar besides, as we can see from her patched and ragged clothes. She needn't be a beggar, of course--but she is not available to taste the pleasures that offer themselves in the present.” 

“It's time to face up to the fact that the past is gone, and any effort to repeat it is a sure way to stay stuck in old blueprints that you would have already outgrown if you hadn't been so busy clinging to what you have already been through. Take a deep breath, put the box down, tie it up in a pretty ribbon if you must, and bid it a fond and reverent farewell. Life is passing you by, and you're in danger of becoming an old fossil before your time!”

She interpreted: I’m literally obsessed with my past. Which is also to say, I’m obsessed with my trauma. Again, she didn’t even know about my book, my brain, or any of the other shit I’m currently not working on with a trained medical professional like I should be. She told me I need to “let it go.” Whatever “it” was that I’ve been holding onto, I need to get that old stuff out of my face.

My thoughts: No. Fucking. Shit. If you didn’t know, I spent four whole years reliving and rewriting my trauma into a memoir that is now sitting proudly in the front window of a least 1-2 Barnes and Nobles in Brooklyn where I have strategically placed them so as to not be sandwiched between Arthritis Pain 101 and Heal Your MIGRAINES Now on the very bottom row of the book shelf.

Honestly, I’m glad I spent four years clinging to my past. It made me tough AF and ain’t nobody can tell me shit. Why? Because resiliency that’s fucking why.

But the cards are right. I have to let it all go now. Which isn’t to say I have to pretend it didn’t happen, but it’s time for me to truly move on, move on, dear traveler.

Should I still tour my book and comedy and use my brain injury to promote my identity as the most adorable and funny brain-injured chick in all the land? Abso-fuckin-lutely. Should I toil with every book sale and allow myself to linger in yesteryear? Nope. Not. Gonna. Do. It.

I also pulled…



“These three women are high in the air, playful and free, yet alert and interdependent. In a trapeze act, nobody can afford to be a little bit "absent" even for a split second. And it is this quality of total attentiveness to the moment at hand that is represented here. We may feel there are too many things to do at once, but get bogged down in trying to do a bit here, a bit there, instead of taking one task at a time and getting on with it. Or perhaps we think our task is "boring" because we've forgotten that it's not what you do but how you do it that matters.”

”Developing the knack of being total in responding to whatever comes, as it comes, is one of the greatest gifts you can give yourself. Taking one step through life at a time, giving each step your complete attention and energy, can bring a wondrous new vitality and creativity to all that you do.”

She interpreted: I have to focus. Just like a cast member in Cirque du Soleil, I gotta be on the ball and never take my eye off that same ball. I have to be the ball, okay. She also said when I am The Master and I stop Clinging to the Past, then I will have totality. I will be in the moment and I will thrive.

My thoughts: Yeah, I’m a hummingbird and my hair is on fire like all the time so yeah, you know what I do get distracted. I experience these flow or “total” states when I’m writing. I literally forget to go to the bathroom or eat or drink for like eight hour increments, it’s insane. But I’ve got too many damn balls floating around.

And try not to laugh at that, okay, I’m trying to be serious here, you guys.  

If I were a juggler I would suck right now and Cirque du Soleil would surely blacklist me from every future circus gig. I need to focus. I need to zen. I need to take some shit off my plate like right this very moment.

So if you’re reading this, that’s me telling you that I’m going to take a tiny pause from my podcast, Mimi and The Brain, for about a month, just to get my little zen head back on my neck for a minute.

Don’t worry! I’m not going anywhere, OK!

And if you are itching for some prime Mimi content might I direct you to like…everything else I’m doing right now. Including but not limited to my very fun and very dramatic book that is available right the fuck now, Fam!

Anyway, this post is getting long. And if I were to walk you through every single card we pulled with my questions like:

Is there anything holding me back from being successful?

Will I truly find love? And

Should I let someone else be responsible for my art or produce it solo?

I think I’d end up with a full-blown book proposal so we’re not going to do that, okay?

But I will leave you on a couple juicy bits and some emotional aftershock to stew on for the next month while you’re waiting for more content from me.

Honorable mentions:

I asked the deck more about pursuing my writing and I got Past Lives, a card which says in all of my past lives I encountered a choice to pursue a thing, or not and to regret it like a loser the rest of that life. My Tarot Spirit Guide said that every life I’ve lived before* I haven’t pursued it. Which is why leaning into my identity as an artist is so hard in this life.


*What do you guys think, hmm? Former Prime Minister of India? A carpenter in Renaissance Italy? One-armed juggler in 1930’s Chicago? Hit me up with your best predictions of my past lives! WHAT A FUN GAME I JUST MADE.

As you knew I would, I also asked the deck if I would find love or remain an old dusty hag with lots of dogs and a cabin all for myself. Which doesn’t sound so bad minus the dusty hag part.

I got the Schizophrenia, Morality, and Sorrow cards. Sounds promising, right? Well, actually it kind of is.



“The person on this card brings a new twist to the old idea of "getting stuck between a rock and a hard place!" But we are in precisely this sort of situation when we get stuck in the indecisive and dualistic aspect of the mind. Should I let my arms go and fall head-first, or let my legs go and fall feet-first? Should I go here or there? Should I say yes or no? And whatever decision we make, we will always wonder if we should have decided the other way.”

”The only way out of this dilemma is, unfortunately, to let go of both at once. You can't work your way out of this one by solving it, making lists of pros and cons, or in any way working it out with your mind. Better to follow your heart, if you can find it. If you can't find it, just jump--your heart will start beating so fast there will be no mistake about where it is!”

She explained: When I go on dates, I’m kind of two-faced. I’m not being my truest self. And guys can see it a mile away. They are so good at spotting my two-facedness, in fact, that not one of them has seriously approached me as a romantic possibility in over a year. What does the deck Have to say about my future as that dusty dog lady, you ask?

Well…then I pulled:



“Morality has restricted all the juice and energy of life to the narrow confines of her mind. It can't flow there, so she really has become 'a dried-up old prune'. Her whole manner is very proper and stiff and severe, and she is always ready to see every situation as black and white, like the jewel she wears around her neck.”

”The Queen of Clouds lurks in the minds of all of us who have been brought up with rigid ideas of good and bad, sinful and virtuous, acceptable and unacceptable, moral and immoral. It's important to remember that all these judgments of the mind are just products of our conditioning. And whether our judgments are applied to ourselves or to others, they keep us from experiencing the beauty and godliness that lies within. Only when we break through the cage of our conditioning and reach the truth of our own hearts can we begin to see life as it really is.”

She said: In order to find love, I need to let go of that desire to hold back my true self, the master, totality, all that. I gotta quit being such a dried-up old prune. OK, so she didn’t say that, but how goddamn hilarious is that?

I think: This card is spot-on. I don’t have any jewels around my neck but I’m pretty sure I’ve been pretty stubborn lately when it comes to dating. And like my new schizophrenia diagnosis, I have to quit hiding my full self from these dudes. Otherwise…



“The image is of Ananda, the cousin and disciple of Gautam Buddha. He was at Buddha's side constantly, attending to his every need for forty-two years. When Buddha died, the story is told that Ananda was still at his side, weeping. The other disciples chastised him for his misunderstanding: Buddha had died absolutely fulfilled; he should be rejoicing. But Ananda said, "You misunderstand. I'm weeping not for him but for myself, because for all these years I have been constantly at his side but I have still not attained." Ananda stayed awake for the whole night, meditating deeply and feeling his pain and sorrow. By the morning, it is said, he was enlightened.”

”Times of great sorrow have the potential to be times of great transformation. But in order for transformation to happen we must go deep, to the very roots of our pain, and experience it as it is, without blame or self-pity.”

She said: Yeah. You better get your shit straight or you’re gonna be in peril, Mimi. Whoopi said it best:


This seemed grim, but she actually told me I’m about to find love, like the real kind. She told me I’m going to meet the man of my dreams and have everything I’ve ever wanted. The catch? I’m going to go very on-brand and freak the fuck out about it which will lead me to this lovely card of a man weeping uncontrollably. And that just doesn’t really sound fun for me, personally.

So: I can pursue the man* of my dreams but only if 1) I’m being my most authentic and awesome self and 2) I chill the hell out

*I’m not going to be dramatic…but I did meet a super cute guy at a party this weekend. Have my dusty old prune days come to an end? STAY TUNED TO FIND OUT.

Okay, okay, I’m going to talk about two more cards followed by a story, mmkay?

Next Question: Am I gonna be OK? i.e. “listen you little deck of cards I have seen some shit and I really want to achieve all these awesome dreams so am I going to or not?”

I pulled…



“When we are truly in a spirit of adventure, we are moving just like this child. Full of trust, out of the darkness of the forest into the rainbow of the light, we go step by step, drawn by our sense of wonder into the unknown. Adventure really has nothing to do with plans and maps and programs and organization.”

”The Page of Rainbows represents a quality that can come to us anywhere--at home or in the office, in the wilderness or in the city, in a creative project or in our relationships with others. Whenever we move into the new and unknown with the trusting spirit of a child, innocent and open and vulnerable, even the smallest things of life can become the greatest adventures.”

She told me: There’s this story of this guy who asks his guru what he should do to be happy, OK. And so the guru is like yeah sure go to this mountain. And there aren’t like planes or even like boats really he has to travel all across the world, literally swim the Pacific or something to get to this mountain. Twenty years this guy is trying to get to this fucking mountain. Along the way he meets the love of his life, has some crazy stories, all this stuff. But he gets to the mountain, all right, and it suuuuucks. Literally the mountain is dumb and he hates it. But then he looks back at his twenty-year journey and he’s like okay it’s not so bad I did all that cool stuff on the way here.

My thoughts: Wow I would hate to be that guy right now. But what a cool story. And so perfectly intertwined with my life and my constant pursuits to find the next best thing but never really enjoying the moments that get me there. “Drawn by our sense of wonder into the unknown?” Oh hell yeah. Let’s go find that lame-ass mountain!

Question asked next: What are my best qualities?

I pulled…

The Fool:


“Moment to moment, and with every step, the Fool leaves the past behind. He carries nothing more than his purity, innocence and trust, symbolized by the white rose in his hand. The pattern on his waistcoat contains the colors of all four elements of the tarot, indicating that he is in harmony with all that surrounds him. His intuition is functioning at its peak. At this moment the Fool has the support of the universe to make this jump into the unknown. Adventures await him in the river of life.”

”The card indicates that if you trust your intuition right now, your feeling of the 'rightness' of things, you cannot go wrong. Your actions may appear 'foolish' to others, or even to yourself, if you try to analyze them with the rational mind. But the 'zero' place occupied by the Fool is the numberless number where trust and innocence are the guides, not skepticism and past experience.”

Guru said: I have the ability to continue trusting, loving, and existing even when bad things happen to me. I am “foolish” in that I have an aura of innocence that allows me to bounce back from the past in a way that others cannot.

Me: At this moment in the session I was ugly crying. Why? Because the cards were right. The cards knew. They knew that I’ve been hurt by others and betrayed by my own body. They knew that on a daily basis I foolishly forget all the pain I’ve been through.

The card goes on to say:

“A fool is one who goes on trusting; a fool is one who goes on trusting against all his experience. You deceive him, and he trusts you; and you deceive him again, and he trusts you; and you deceive him again, and he trusts you. Then you will say that he is a fool, he does not learn. His trust is tremendous; his trust is so pure that nobody can corrupt it.”

”Be a fool in the Taoist sense, in the Zen sense. Don't try to create a wall of knowledge around you. Whatsoever experience comes to you, let it happen, and then go on dropping it. Go on cleaning your mind continuously; go on dying to the past so you remain in the present, here-now, as if just born, just a babe.”

”In the beginning it is going to be very difficult. The world will start taking advantage of you...let them. They are poor fellows. Even if you are cheated and deceived and robbed, let it happen, because that which is really yours cannot be robbed from you, that which is really yours nobody can steal from you.”

”And each time you don't allow situations to corrupt you, that opportunity will become an integration inside. Your soul will become more crystallized.”

At this point in the session I had to blow my nose. Which my guru was totally cool about. I explained to her in vague terms why I was crying and that it was true, I’m resilient because I am not burdened by my traumas, I use them to get me places.

Now for the final story.

I’ve been carrying on my week like normal, despite having been totally shaken by the truths told to me by a deck of cards I’d never even heard of before. I went to work like normal, did a few after-work social gatherings, and continued to stalk the shelves of every bookstore I could find for my book.

But something crazy happened tonight.

I went to go see A Star is Born with a friend, ugly cried, as was predicted, made a trip to the eye doctor for some new contacts and glasses, met a complete stranger at a coffee shop who grew up in Colorado, is a writer, teacher, and probably my new best friend…but the weirdest thing happened when I was reading my copy of my own book on the subway home.

I got to the part where I get a little humbled and deep. No spoilers, but I talk about feeling lucky that I’m not disabled, dead, or blind.

I went to my first eye exam in three years earlier today. And aside from being that idiot that wears a single pair of contacts for six months until they literally rip themselves out of my eye sockets, my eyes are fine.

I have some double-vision in the corners of my eyes still. Mostly just in the morning or if I look at something really fast in that upper left corner. Do you understand how fucking lucky I am?

I woke up from brain surgery seeing double and sideways. Are we on the same page now?

I closed my book on the end of this chapter right as the subway doors opened and began sobbing. All of a sudden I remembered. The Fool remembered what I’d been through and all of the sudden that was very heavy.

I ugly-cried myself the two blocks home while calling my mom. As I slowly puttered down the street leaving puddles of eyeball goo behind me, bodega owners and taxi guys on the street started shouting at me “What’s wrong, Baby? What’s wrong?” It was like reverse catcalling, it was kind of awesome.

But I kept walking, telling my mother that I was probably just overly emotional because of Bradley Cooper but also that I almost died four years ago and I kind of thought that was a lot to process.

I hadn’t realized in that teary phone call, but my brain was lining up all the information from the tarot cards and delivering them in real time. This wasn’t just some random thing I did. I’d opened up a window into my soul.

Added bonus? I got this all for $30.

Talk about a mind-fuck.

Well. That’s all I have for you this…morning? It’s currently 2:32AM as I’m wrapping this lil’ puppy up. Which I guess makes me The Master of Writing.

And also really fucking tired.

Charaiveti, charaiveti friends, I’ve got some REM cycles to attend to…

Editor’s Note: The cards used in the Tarot session were called “Osho Zen” Tarot cards and reflect the teachings of Osho, an Indian spiritual teacher who died in the 1990’s. During his lifetime he was viewed as a controversial new religious movement leader and mystic. The descriptions for each card were pulled from a site I found online that appear to be from a book published from Osho himself. I do not know the credibility of this source, however the descriptions found on the site matched what the Tarot reader said to me.



How I Really Feel the Day My Book Comes Out



If you would have asked me four years ago on this day where I saw myself today I think I would have told you I’d be happily kicking it with Rosa Parks and Gilda Radner “on the other side” munching on some fancy cheese dips and trading gossip about which dead celebs were hitting on us at the pearly gates of heaven.  

My head was pretty screwed up by that point and I was making all kinds of dark jokes.

I had also just started doing something to distract me from all the brain bleeding nonsense.

I had just started writing a book.

Exactly four years ago I was sitting on my parent’s couch plopping my busted fingers down on a fresh word document.

This sentence took me five minutes to write” were the very first words I wrote.

It actually took me longer than that because I could only use one hand.

Is it fate that this book would get published exactly four years later?

I don’t know about fate, okay. And *SPOILER ALERT* if I’m being completely honest with you that same sentence got cut from the final copy. But I’ll tell you this much, I never expected any of this to happen.

I never expected to be getting an email from a publisher on Sept 25, 2017 asking to publish my manuscript.

I wasn’t planning on delegating a cover design or hiring an attorney to negotiate contract terms.

I didn’t anticipate seeing actual ratings for my book posted online by people I’ve never met before.

And I definitely didn’t think a box of books could make me cry.

The truth is, I started writing a book because I thought I was dying. And I thought maybe I should start saying something important before I couldn’t say anything at all. Behind the LOLs and selfies of me at my keyboard typing away there was real, unfiltered fear.

This could be it. This could be the last thing you ever say.

Part of me was really upset that I wasn’t Anne Frank. That I wasn’t a pure and radiant soul documenting life-shattering thoughts on the page. I’m just some brain damaged chick sitting here watching Netflix waiting to die, I thought.

This was not a fun idea to entertain.

So I sat there on September 18, 2014 and began typing with my right hand. I got a few more sentences down, mostly about how I thought I was dying and that I thought it was really funny and weird to be writing a book in such a condition. I finished a page or two and then took a break to watch six straight episodes of How I Met Your Mother.

I think the next day might have been similar. Get up, take brain pills, eat food I can’t taste, write book, Netflix, nap, Netflix, nap, friend takes me on a walk, Netflix, bed.

I started writing a book because honestly what else was I doing?

When I thought about note-worthy dramas in movies and TV, the dying person always gets to go do something they’ve always wanted to do. They get to see a sunset in Italy or eat some exotic food or do something reckless and bad-ass on a rooftop or some shit.

Nope. Not me. I’m just gonna sit here and watch Barney tell us for the millionth time that it’s going to be legen….WAIT FOR IT…DARY.

What’s legendary about not showering for a whole week and finding Cheese Doodles in your hair?

I started writing a book because I was depressed and sad and thought I was dying and needed therapy.

Not what you expected? Yeah, I know. Me neither.

I guess it’s not our fault. I think society pushes the idea that authors are poised, literary robots who recite quotes from The Classics and spend hours in dimly lit cafes channeling their genius into every word, sentence, and paragraph.

Yeah, what a load of shit right there.

I mean maybe that’s the case for one or two of us. The few and far between; the privileged authors who have plenty of therapy and quiet space and money to create said genius works.

I hated writing in college. I was a History major so I had to write a lot of 20-page dissertations on feminism during WWII and all I could gather was that I was really bad at it.

“Write more academically.”

“Stop using puns.”

“Quit dropping the F-Bomb.”

 It never occurred to me then that it was the beginning of the end for me. And I’m not talking about the whole brain bleeding thing anymore, but that it was the beginning of what would become a never-ending need to write.

An itch that I would forever need to scratch.

I continued writing a book because it felt good. It felt good to release what I think was probably better suited for a therapist’s couch but came out on a page in the privacy of my computer screen instead.

I began saying whatever I wanted and whatever I felt. I typed with that one hand every chance I got (when I wasn’t watching Netflix, that is).

All of my emotions and dark contemplation’s about death and heartbreak just kind of oozed out of me. Kind of like the blood in my brain. I couldn’t control it. I wrote about a guy possibly dying next to me in the ICU, finding a catheter in my you-know-where, and temporarily having the vision of somebody on some seriously dope LSD.

And also like my brain I really needed to clean it up.

By the time I healed up and got back into the classroom I’d written about half of a manuscript. Approximately 40,000 words of utter nonsense about being really scared that my last meal was about to be a frozen burrito.

The fear continued to sit on my chest throughout student teaching, where I learned just how hard teaching would become for me with my newly patched-up brain.

Grading and lesson planning replaced book writing for a while. I could use my left hand again, but it was busy typing out emails to parents about So-And-So smacking another kid with a ruler in 4th period.

I took a two-week long nap after my first school year and then dusted off my word document and began again. This sentence is going to take me five years to publish at this rate, I thought as I reviewed the utter shitshow-condition of my manuscript.

And you know what, it pretty much did.

I spent the next three years rewriting and rereading my trauma.

And honestly, it was really fucking painful.

Just picture the worst moments of your life and analyzing them from every emotional angle for four whole years. Sounds fun right?! Wrong.

But like I said. I couldn’t go back. My body was extracting toxins into paper and I was just a slave to it after a certain point. Grade papers, teach, grade, nap, write, grade, nap, write, teach, eat a cube of cheese to keep from passing out.

It was the new normal.

And I need you to know that it was not glamorous.

Today and probably in the foreseeable future, you’re going to see a lot of pictures of me and other people holding my beautiful book, beaming with joy.

And that joy is real.

It’s the realest thing I’ve ever felt. So when I tell you that I cried in my rental car last night when this song came on the radio you kind of get where I’m coming from.

It’s very fun having people surround you with something you created. I imagine it’s how new moms must feel when everybody circles around and coo’s at you and your beautiful baby.

But it’s also scary. It’s scary that this thing I created out of fear of dying is now alive and well and in the hands of any Joe Blow who happens to see it on a bookshelf.

It’s terrifying that my alternative to therapy is now in the hands of my mother, my father, and probably a few curious guys I dated long ago before any of this existed.

How am I really feeling the day my first book comes out?

A lot of things.

Pride. Excitement. Fear. Uncertainty. Shock. Probably a couple of emotions that won’t be discovered by scientists until 2025.

I don’t know if these emotions will ever wear off. Not fully anyway. It’s a very strange experience when your conversations shift from “how are you doing in New York?” to “Wow, that thing you said on page 17 nearly made me piss my pants.”

My Auntie said she cried at a chapter that I didn’t even know could make someone cry.

It occurs to me now that I was pretty stealthy about the whole being terrified of dying thing. To the point that even the people closest to me are coming to me now with some very big emotional reactions to my I-really-should-have-been-in-therapy memoir.

To my credit, I was in therapy. Just of a different kind. Learning how to walk again seemed a bit more of a priority than my bottled up emotions at the time.

But here I am, sitting on my parents couch yet again letting some of those emotions leak out onto the page. It’s not perfect. It’s sometimes scattered and messy and painful. But it’s a necessary thing I do now because, again, I really should be in therapy.

Don’t worry about me though, really.

I’ve got great friends. My family is rock solid. I live in the coolest city in the world.

As the cover of my book would say, I’ll be OK.

I’ll be better than OK, actually, I’ll be fucking fantastic.

Feel free to congratulate me, pat me on the back, and take selfies with my book.

I hope you buy it, read it, and enjoy it.

I hope you laugh and I also hope you have a box of tissues at the ready.

I hope that some brain-injured chick out there on her parent’s couch finds it, reads it, and feels a little less alone.

And more than anything, I hope that I continue to chase this dream no matter what happens.

Now go out there* and get your copy!

Had to have high, high hopes for a living
Shooting for the stars when I couldn't make a killing
Didn't have a dime but I always had a vision
Always had high, high hopes
Had to have high, high hopes for a living
Didn't know how but I always had a feeling
I was gonna be that one in a million
Always had high, high hopes

*Check out major bookstores first! If they don’t carry it, feel free to ask them to order or visit Amazon or my site over at Animal Media Group here!



How I Became a Podcaster on Accident

Here I am, relaxed as ever, after nearly losing an entire audio file...

Here I am, relaxed as ever, after nearly losing an entire audio file...

Me: “I should start a podcast.”
Also Me: *looks at calendar booked to infinity*

I have a bad habit of accidentally doing things.

Not anything bad. I’ve never been pregnant or on cocaine. Although I did spend two weeks in a rehab center one time. And I did do a lot of drugs while I was there. But that was kind of necessary considering my brain exploding and all.

When I say “accidentally” I mean I had no intention of doing these things. I didn’t put them on any sort of Bucket-List or 5 Year Plan. And even when I was actively doing them, I still didn’t really consider the fact that I was doing them.

Does that make any sense?

I wrote a book on accident because my friend told me it would be a good idea and that maybe Ellen would invite me to be on her TV show.

I thought that was cool.

So that night I went to my computer, pulled up a word document, and wrote the words “I am writing a book” under a title page. I had no credentials, skills, or writing experience. And four years later it’s no longer a silly punchline that I merely humor and joke about to my friends, but a real-life BOOK that you will be able to buy in three weeks. And read. With your real-life eyeballs.

Ta- daaaah.


Trippy right?

I also accidentally started doing stand up comedy. Because a college buddy and I got drunk one time and signed up for an open mic. I was allotted three minutes and I performed eight, paying no mind to a person in the back of the room waving a phone light at me telling me to get the fuck off the stage.

Here I am probably telling the joke about the guy that held my face on a date who I figure is probably next in line to become a serial murderer (or THE serial murderer...from a true crime podcast I'm currently bingeing...)

Here I am probably telling the joke about the guy that held my face on a date who I figure is probably next in line to become a serial murderer (or THE serial murderer...from a true crime podcast I'm currently bingeing...)

And then four years later here I am in New York City telling jokes in big ol’ comedy clubs because that’s what real-life comedians do. One time I even got featured on a list called "New York City Comedians To Look Out For in 2018" which is strange considering I wasn't even trying to be a comedian at all ever. People still wave phone lights at me, but I’m part of a special club and I know what that means now.  

And wouldn’t you know it a few months ago a friend told me to start a podcast and I bet you can guess the punchline to this joke.

Artwork by the lovely and talented  Joyah Love Spangler

Artwork by the lovely and talented Joyah Love Spangler

Yep. I started a podcast.


Silly Mimi! Artistic projects are for…ARTISTS. Oh wait, you’re one of those too! This was not part of the plan!

I had a lot of plans growing up. Plans to be on Broadway and then more realistic plans to be a high school teacher. These things are still within reach for me, and I’m even still pursuing some of these things now.

But here’s the cool thing about “falling into” things: It’s way better than the shit I actually planned.

Why? Because planning comes with expectations. When I plan something, I set up an expectation in my brain of how that thing will turn out, so I obviously imagine the very best. I planned to be the best teacher imaginable, for every student to become a better person for having met me.


Now that’s not to say I wasn’t or am not currently a great teacher. Because I am.

But I’d be lying if I told you my expectations of clean cups of pencils and an organized classroom with zero questioning of my authority matched up perfectly with my reality of choking back tears in the teacher’s lounge in between class periods.

I was a hot mess.

And that’s fine because I’ve anchored that experience into what I’m currently doing, which is being a badass podcaster, writer, comedian, and human being. Hot-Mess to Bad-Ass: My Crazy Artist Life…anyone dare me to write another book?!


I wasn’t really planning to be any of these things, so I have a very low bar when it comes to how successful I will be with them or what new opportunities will arise as a result. And when I say low bar I mean I practically trip over it on a daily basis.

It's a lot easier to succeed in something when you have zero concepts of what success looks like in that thing. For all you know, success means just not bursting into flames! Hey, good job! You're not on fire! You are slaying it at life!

Start a podcast, you say? Sure! Why not! What have I got to lose?! What’s one more thing I can immerse myself in that I know absolutely nothing about?

To be clear, I lacked all the necessary skills, equipment, and physical time to become a podcaster. It was only last year that I even KNEW what a podcast was, mmkay. I’d even been lightly nudged by other podcasters I'd met in New York not to start one because of how time-consuming they can become.

But that bar of expectations was already rolling around at my feet so I simply stepped over it and bought myself a copy of “Podcasting For Dummies” and binged more of my favorite podcasts on the subway and tried to learn their styles and techniques.

My favorites? Up and Vanished, Serial, Tiny Leaps Big Changes, Hidden Brain, and Science Vs.

Up and Vanished especially taught me the power of a regular Joe starting a podcast. Now, Payne Lindsey was already a filmmaker before he started his podcast so I bet he had a nice network of sound people and fancy microphones, but still, he was just like me! A random human with a story to tell!

So I borrowed a couple mics from a friend of a friend (who later became the creator of my theme song, what up Lucas Murray Music you the MAN) and started fooling around with sound software.

I was still missing some things, though. Mainly a sound mixing device and knowledge of what the actual fuck I was doing.

But that was easy to find. And the story was already there. The story is me.

As many of you know, I’ve expertly branded my brain injury into some content that is oddly marketable, it turns out. Much like my brain injury itself, that was also an accident. And a happy one at that.

But I already had a whole book about me and my brain, right? What else is there to explore? Are you really about to be yet another friend I have with a silly podcast I have to listen to? You say as you scoff audibly into the air as you read this. Well, if we’re going to get into the brain itself, there’s quite a bit of crazy phenomena to try to understand.

Like why do eyeballs see double after a brain injury? What part of a brain is responsible for making someone a serial killer? Do we have any idea why it takes babies so long to stop putting Legos in their mouths and trying to kill themselves when my back is turned?

I’d like to know these things. And because I’m not a neuroscientist (or rather, I haven’t accidentally enrolled in medical school yet) I can’t answer these questions. But I bet there are people out there that can.

And there you have it, the birth of an accidental podcast.


Powered by sheer curiosity, lots of fumbling with microphone cords, and a can-do attitude! 

The path to this podcast has been filled with many peaks and valleys; losing audio files, learning curves, and late nights spent reading lengthy science research trying not to look like a fool in front of my guests with Ph.D.’s, best-selling books, and award-winning research.

Mimi and The Brain is a science podcast, with a comedic twist. It’s a podcast about brains, for people that have them. In the first season, I will be interviewing top brain scientists, surgeons, and psychologists about the intricacies and mysteries of the human mind. I will tackle my confusion with real-life experts and have one heck of a fun time doing it!

Sound cool? It is. And guess what, it’s available now to listen!

Episodes 0 and 1 are now available to listen on Spotify, Apple iTunes, Google Podcasts, Stitcher, and you can click here to find it on our host site Buzzsprout!

Join us every other week to learn about my brain and your brain, baby brains, and even monkey brains, all of the brains! And feel free to follow us on social media @mimiandthebrain on Instagram and Facebook and @mimiandbrain on Twitter for the latest updates on our journey to discover all things brainy!

I hope you enjoy this accidental endeavor as much as I do.

Bye now! Or as I say on my podcast signoff… “Catch you gooey brains later!”

Mimi and The Brain is brought to you by...

Kylie Holloway, Producer
Jose Manuel Alfonzo, Sound Editing
Lucas Murray Music, Theme Music
Joyah Love Spangler, Artwork
Gotham Sound, Equipment 
and Mimi Hayes, Writing and Co-Producer




Hello Insecurity, It's Me Mimi

Oh, hello there.

I almost didn’t see you behind that bush over there. See, I guess I thought you were long gone by now. You know, with me doing well and all.

I just assumed you’d taken a one-way ticket to your destination of choice. It’s a great time to visit Poconos I hear. Or maybe Aspen once the leaves start to turn. I figured you wouldn’t be around anymore after things started to take off for me, professionally speaking.

I’m sure you’ve heard the big news. Yes, I got my first book deal this year. And yes, everyone is very proud. As you know I’ve spent the past four years on this project and it’s all coming to fruition, finally.

I bet you’ve also been following my Instagram closely to see that I’m exercising a lot more these days and trying to get healthy. It’s a long process but I’m already starting to see and feel a difference from the small changes I’ve made so far.

And hadn’t you heard? I’m doing more comedy than I have in years. I’m performing all over, working on new material, and even teaching a few writing classes in comedy and other genres that are meaningful and fun for me.

Yet here you are.

I must admit I’m not excited to see you. In fact, I wish you’d go back to your stupid bush and leave me alone if I’m being honest with you.

Because you’re starting to cramp my style.

A few months after being offered a book deal, you showed up. You showed up during a lunch date with a new friend I’d just made. A friend I was really trying to impress and make a connection with. And you were actually quite rude.

You interrupted me mid-conversation to remind me that it could all come crashing down in an instant and that it wasn’t really a big deal anyway. You embarrassed me in front of this new friend, so much so that she called you out on the spot. I apologized profusely on your behalf and felt so bad I bought her a slice of cheesecake.

I thought maybe that spectacle would have deterred you, but you showed up again at a comedy show and told me I wasn’t funny and that I was trying too hard to make trauma funny, something I’ve been working really hard on this year and actually felt good about.

And let’s not even start on the other night, at the club. I was comfortable in my outfit and having a really nice time dancing with my friends at the bar and then you rolled up to inform me that I couldn’t pull off the outfit (because I’m “pudgy” as you said) and that I was just the “(not even really) funny best friend” role in a romantic comedy and that I’d never get a guy in real life.

That shit hurt.

And now. Today. You’ve shown up unannounced yet again, a mere month before my book comes out to tell me more horrible things:

That my book won’t sell.

That my book won’t sell (because it’s shit).

Oh, and that I am shit.

That people will not buy my book because it is shit and I am shit.

That I will never be as successful as I want to be (because of said reasons above).

I can’t believe you would say these things to me. From what, the little cave that you live in?

You fucking coward.

And worse? Your behavior has started to impact how I behave around other people! Because of you, I’ve hidden my true self. I’ve had melt downs in public. I’ve even said things to people that I’m not proud of.

I drank your Kool-Aid.

And it’s disgusting.

I never even liked Kool-Aid. 

I don’t want you around anymore. I really don’t.

For a while, I humored you and let you hang around because I didn’t really think you were capable of wreaking that much havoc on my life. You could sit in on my conversations, follow me to the bus stop, even come to work with me without causing too much of a problem. But now it’s time to go.

For good.

I’m dancing around things but let me come right out and say it right here and now: I’m breaking up with you.

I’m banishing you from my life. It’s not me. It’s you. And you fucking suck.

Take this as your cue to leave, forever. Go ahead, discover yourself in the mountains, take that trip to Brazil you’ve always wanted. I don’t give a shit where you go but you are not welcome here. Take some vows and become a nun for all I care. Just. Go. Away.

The road before me is too exciting and promising to take you along with me. Shit, I’ll probably get there faster without you dragging me down the whole way there. I’m actually pretty eager to see where I end up now that we’re cutting ties and all.

Do not try and follow me.

I am blocking you on all social media channels.

Don’t make me get a restraining order. You know I’ll fucking do it.

Please take your box of sad, weird notes and knickknacks that you’ve given me over the years and leave my apartment. Don’t make this harder than it is, okay?

I can’t really say we “had good times” because well, we didn’t. You’ve always been a pain in my ass and I don’t know how I’ve put up with you for so long. I know that sounds harsh but it’s just the truth. And you’ve done nothing but spew lies to me all this time so at least one of us can be honest about something.

After all of this is said and done I hope you realize how good I was to you all that time, letting you hang around me and lowering my standards so that you wouldn’t feel so out of place and strange in my life.

But let’s get real. I’ve outgrown you. And I’m sorry to say that we’re just headed in different directions. Me to my bright future, and you to…well, shit I don’t know what you’ll do. Like I said I don’t care.

Goodbye, and good luck becoming someone else’s problem.

Peace out,


P.S. I’ve changed all my Netflix, HBO, and Hulu passwords. #sorrynotsorry


1 Comment

50 (Even More) Things You Learn Your First Year in New York City

Just me and a 3-year-old living our best lives over here. 

Just me and a 3-year-old living our best lives over here. 

I hope by now you know exactly the kind of sage New York wisdom I’m about to descend upon all of you.

Or at least if not all of you, the die-hard fans.

You know, those of you who have been reading from afar wondering just how long it will take my tiny foot to get caught in between the subway platform and snap clean off.

All right, that’s kind of graphic. But you get the idea. It’s a tough city. And while I’m my own brand of badass, I don’t think I’m hardcore enough to deal with that kind of trip to the Emergency Room.

And I really hope I never have to. Because my doctor sucks. And she’d probably take one look at my dismembered ankle and tell me, “Oh that? No, no, that’s fine. Just use your other foot!”

There are few people on my “Would Murder If Shit Hit The Fan And Everybody Was Just Murdering People Left And Right” List. But my current doctor is definitely one of them.

Murderous thoughts aside, it’s been a very crazy year.

Yes, you read that correctly. Do not adjust your screens.

I have lived in New York City for a whole freaking year. That’s 365 days of foot blisters, missed subway connections, and enough interactions with crazy people to fill the entire state of Texas.

Me: *looks longingly into the distance, hoping desperately to work at Buzzfeed*

Me: *looks longingly into the distance, hoping desperately to work at Buzzfeed*

If you can believe it, on this day* one year ago I packed a hiking backpack and a large suitcase with clothes and my printed and bound manuscript and made my Dad take me to the airport really fucking early, bless him.

I remember the night before, on my parent’s bed watching pay-per-view movies and spiraling into madness looking over my “New York Attack Plan” like it was going to tell me my future. Items 1 and 2 were necessary for survival:

1) Find a job

2) Find a place to live.

In my first full day in the city, I walked into Buzzfeed to try to acquire Item 1 only to learn that I looked like one of those crazy Texans from the previous paragraph and was promptly told to leave.

I offer below several images of my face while walking through the East Village for the first time fully equipped to conquer the literary and comedy universes with my highly impressive resumé.

And Item 2? Oh, you know, real casual.

I lived in a commune working as a “house manager” which meant cleaning up after upwards of 20 young people in a four-floor Crumbling Brownstone in Brooklyn. Which was super fucking annoying but at least I got free rent for half a second.

There are many things I’ve learned this year; about myself, and this strange foreign country we call New York City. Some of these lessons have been painful, others harrowing or hilarious. I can’t say for sure when I’ll stop learning these life lessons in this city. And maybe I don’t want to, really.

If you haven’t already, please feel free to revisit the prior two segments in this ridiculous three-part series (as well as any other content you may have missed this past year):

50 Things You Learn Your First Weeks in New York City

50 (More) Things You Learn Your First Six Months in New York City

Now, onto the good shit:

1.) You know you’re a New Yorker when you get into an argument with a Taxi. In the middle of an intersection.


Translation: “Hey! I’m walkin’ here!”

No really. I’m walking here. Motherfucker.

2.) Failure is the best thing you can do in NYC. It shakes you off your moorings and teaches you the only thing that matters if you’re going to “make it” here: Grit.

3.) The failure stated in Item 2 will not be awesome like some early 2000's chick-in-the-city Hollywood montage. In fact, you won’t feel like Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wear’s Prada even once despite having bought a sexy pair of black heels before moving here that you called your “New York Shoes” that you have worn approximately zero times. Wait. One time. To a show. And you fell down a flight of stairs in them and cried the whole way to the subway. Completely forgot about that.

4.) You are going to make a lot of new friends. But only after a period of approximately six months of feeling helplessly alone and misunderstood and broody and spending a lot of time calling your friends back at home complaining about your lack of friends…then you’ll have brunch with a bunch of strangers at the actual apartment building where the show Friends was filmed and you’ll be all like, “Wow! I have so many friends!”

*Cue Friends theme song clappy thing*

5.) Around nine months in ̶ after some dust has settled and the subway rats don’t scare you anymore ̶ you’ll start to say ‘yes’ to everything; random spots in comedy shows, birthday party invites from people you’ve just met, spontaneous business pursuits. You’ll do it all. And a few months later you’ll start to wonder if you’ve gone mad (which you most certainly have), but at least you can say you did a comedy show at an all-male drug rehabilitation center in Harlem for about 200 rowdy dudes, who absolutely loved your bit about stealing Handicapped parking spaces.

6.) Your bank account will be on your mind 24/7 and anxiety will sit on your chest like a fat baby every time you check your balance. Some days (i.e. paydays) you are equipped to deal with this chunky toddler squishing your vital organs. Other days you will question the very basics of  your being, curse your past self for taking out student loans, and probably try a few money saving apps that will only increase the circumference of your fat, broke baby demon by informing you that your net worth is approximately -$75,000.00. Cheers.

7.) Despite Item #6, you are somehow miraculously able to pay rent each month which makes you a winner at life.

8.) You probably own a large percentage of Uber and Lyft stocks by now considering how much money you pay them to get you out of sticky subway situations.

9.) Speaking of which, the 2 and 5 lines are absolute trash. Oh, and the F isn’t great either. Come to think of it the C has been giving you trouble lately. And the J and M move like getting to your destination is fucking optional. And did you know they’re shutting down the L in 2019? Guess you’re never going to Williamsburg for hipster-brunch* anymore.

*New word I’m coining today: Brunchster: noun, A hipster who likes to brunch.

10.) Due to Item #9, you’re going to memorize the entire subway map of NYC without realizing it. This not only comes in handy when your expected route derails (sorry), but you’re going to look like a fucking wizard to all of your friends who come to visit you.

Friend: *looks at Google Maps, panicked* “HOW ARE WE GOING TO GET HOME? MY PHONE IS AT 2%!”
Me: “Shhhhhh…I got this.” *jams finger in closing subway doors at last second without flinching*

11.) You can actually survive in the city if your phone dies. It just means you won’t be able to update you Snap/Insta story about that cute puppy in the rainboots you saw just now. Which is a little heartbreaking but you’ll get over it. Also, it's called a map. Read one. You peasant.

12.) You are going to read more books, listen to more podcasts, and discover more music than ever before, causing your life prior to moving to NYC to seem cultureless and gauche (see, look at you using fancy words n’ shit!). It turns out an hour trapped inside a metal tube underground is the perfect amount of time to binge that new true crime podcast about a 27-year-old cold case murder that happened in your little college town that you never knew about until just now. Just keep one earbud out of your ear. Someone’s going to bump into you from behind in what you thought was an empty subway car and you’re going to holler out “DON’T MURDER ME I WANT TO GET A DOG NEXT YEAR” on accident.

13.) You give way less shits about what you look like these days. You used to take an hour or more to hand-craft an outfit, manage your hairstyle, and carefully apply complex makeup to showcase your best features. Now you give your hair a good shake, plop one dollop of powder on each cheek, and shimmy into some yoga pants in under three minutes flat. You figure there’s so many god damn people here there’s no way anyone’s going to notice your face anyway, so fuck it. Also, you work with small children so double fuck it. All those nice blouses you brought here for when you’d be working at Buzzfeed will get wrecked instantaneously at your actual job as a nanny. Baby puke and magic marker are just a part of your look now and you so clearly don’t give one single, solitary fuck about this.

Stranger: "Do you want me to take a picture of you and your son?"   Me: "Yes, smile for the camera child that is definitely mine!"  Gage: "Whadjucallme?"  Me: "SAYYYYY I'M YOUR MOMMY- I MEAN CHEEEEESE!"

Stranger: "Do you want me to take a picture of you and your son?" 

Me: "Yes, smile for the camera child that is definitely mine!"

Gage: "Whadjucallme?"


14.) Item #13 will cause your wardrobe to be boiled down to roughly five staple outfits and three blazers on rotation for comedy shows (and your signature bowler hat, of course). The only time you feel self-conscious about this is when you’re in SoHo (God knows why, you can’t afford that borough, you peasant) and you start to feel like the overalls and flannel say less “quirky nanny” and more “homeless hipster.”

15.) Around the long tail-end of your first winter you’re going to have a nervous breakdown, walk into an expensive hair salon, and allow a stranger to do whatever she wants to your hair. You consider this serendipitous because they were booked six months out but somehow a walk-in spot opened up just for you. You will immediately Facetime all of your friends and family back home who will take long pauses and gently ask if you’ve gotten any therapy lately to which you’ll say, “Why would I need therapy when this new hairstyle allows me to cut my own bangs now?!

And thus began my relationship with cutting my own bangs...

And thus began my relationship with cutting my own bangs...

16.) You always thought people who cut their own bangs were whackjobs. But it’s totally normal for you now to lob off a lock or two in the morning so that you can see straight. See Item #13.

17.) The triumph you feel at receiving your very first New York paycheck will quickly deflate when the 30% New York taxes start kicking in.

18.) You’re going to hate your first living situation with the passion of 1,000 broody poets in Williamsburg. Even if there are great perks and fun roomies at your first crash pad, this will all be overshadowed by the fact that you’re not living in a cushy studio apartment by yourself with a pug named Herman. You’re living in a trash dump, fish-smelling neighborhood with 20 strangers in a shoddy Brownstone. Which you hence refer to as ‘The Commune.’

19.) You’ll break out of The Commune eventually. Only to experience the horrifying and unjust beast known as Real Estate Hunting In NYC. You’ll work very hard to secure this living situation, sign your first real New York lease, and live off a diet of Trader Joe’s cookies and cheese blocks for a month after nearly emptying your entire bank account to make two security deposits, first month’s rent, last month’s rent, and build an over-the-top IKEA storage bed to account for your lack of a closet. You won’t be the biggest fan of this neighborhood or management company either. But it sure beats watching that guy sit in the same spot at the kitchen table every hour of the day making the same exact toasted cheese and tomato sandwich for every single meal. He had a heart of gold, really he did. But if you had to endure his monotonous and immovable life routine for one more day you’d surely put your hand directly into a toaster and hit “OBLITERATE.”

20.) You’ll fly back to your homeland more than you can afford in your first year, but it will all be for really good reasons like Ted Talk auditions, holidays, and to run half marathons in 11-degree temperatures without having properly trained. When you do go home you will feel so filled with love from your friends and family you’ll want to burst…and a few days later you’ll get a little bored and weirded out by how quiet it is and have a burning itch to get back to the city and dodge a taxi or double-decker tourist bus in Times Square.

21.) You have dodged both a taxi and a double-decker tourist bus in Times Square. What a rush! Mom that was a joke (sort of).

22.) You will reflect back on your early naïve “NYC Attack Plan” checklists with amusement as nothing has turned out how you planned. Not. A. Damn. Thing.

Have I tried to convert you to the Passion Planner yet???

Have I tried to convert you to the Passion Planner yet???

23.) For one, you definitely thought you’d be dead by now (see item #21) as evidence of a heading at the top of a page in your notebook that reads, “You have approximately six months to live (if you don’t find a job and figure this shit out).” The exact Doom’s Day prediction was February 2018. By this date, you thought you’d be on a flight back home (that your parents bought for you because you’re a loser), jobless, and probably nursing an open wound because, in addition to being a failure at adulthood, you also got stabbed by a coked-out perfume salesman on the J train. It turns out you were on a flight back home in February 2018, but for an audition for a motherfucking Ted Talk, you fucking badass motherfucker.

24.) You didn’t get the Ted Talk (fuck!) but it’s chill because you just applied again and you’ll definitely get it this time (Lol jk you didn’t get that one either! Double fuck!)

25.) You’ll do a bunch of cool shit that wasn’t even in your dumb little checklist, like get a book deal, perform stand up comedy in top comedy clubs, teach stand up comedy classes to beginners, make short films, have your essays featured in popular magazines and digital publications, be referred to as a “Top NYC Comedian To Watch Out For in 2018,” start a podcast, and create a business plan to run your own company as a writing and comedy coach.

26.) Who the fuck even are you anymore?

27.) A god damn Kween, that’s who.

I don't wear this coat. I  am  this coat.   Courtesy: Jajuan Burton 

I don't wear this coat. I am this coat. 

Courtesy: Jajuan Burton 

28.) Despite this extraordinary success you’ve found your first 365 days in NYC, you still don’t feel like you’ve “made it.” You have a hard time when you compare yourself to other comedians who are getting booked more than you, authors who have bigger publishing deals, girls with curlier hair, and friends who have stable paychecks, nicer houses, lawns, and dogs to play with on those lawns. You hate it when you play these sick, twisted “who’s adulting better?” games with yourself because you know damn well that one person’s success does not diminish your own. As cramped as it is in this city, there’s room for every single one of us to achieve and follow our dreams here. So keep your head down and keep plugging away at all your dope shit.

29.) If you're having trouble remembering said dope shit, please refer back to item #25, you sociopath.

30.) You can learn a lot about a person based on whether they step to the side or in front of the subway doors when boarding a train.

31.) Try not to turn 26 your first year in New York City as you’ll age out of your parent’s healthcare coverage, leaving you certifiably F-U-C-K-E-D.

32.) If you do happen to turn 26 and need basic medication that keeps you from falling asleep at work five times a day and maybe some light physical therapy to address lingering symptoms of a brain aneurysm, be sure to bring your joke book to your first appointment with your new doctor because you’re going to get a ton of new material. Here is a sample of your new bits! Enjoy!

Me: “I have some double vision in the left corner of my left eye so I think I should go back to physical therapy.”
One of the two doctors I was able to select online after applying the filters “woman” and “speaks English” into healthcare website: “No. You don’t.”
Me: “Excuse me?”
“Doctor”: “You don’t have double vision. Just move your whole head when you look at something.”
Me: *leaps out of the five-story window, effectively using $6,000 deductible and scoring free healthcare for the rest of the year (if still alive)*

33.) After nearly ending your own life at Doctor Visit #1, you’ll try again and find your dream doctor. He’ll be handsome and sweet and will give you referrals for everything you need without blinking and hold your hand when you pass out from anxiety during the blood draw. You will fall madly in love with him only to learn 24 hours later from your health insurance that he actually doesn’t take your healthcare. You will call your dad sobbing in public and then your mom after you’ve leveled out and run out of tears to cry. You’ll write a few depressing Facebook posts about it, leave a scathing Yelp review for Doctor #1, cross out all the Mrs. Doctor Matt graffiti you’ve scrawled into your diary, and resolve to never step foot in a doctor’s office again for as long as you live.

34.) Speaking of love and loss, you’ll fall in love for a hot second, lose him to an expired visa, and be hopelessly single the rest of the year excluding small romantic encounters with an Irish dude on Halloween and a complete bonehead (who became the subject of one of your best bits of 2018 titled “Betwixt Guy”) on New Year’s. Which actually works out in your favor because who’s got time for cross-borough casual dating in between a nanny job, three side-hustles, weekend comedy shows, planning a book launch, and recording a weekly podcast? Oh…NOT you.

35.) Who would you even date in your neighborhood anyway? That middle-aged bodega guy who calls you “Mami” and gives you a hard time every time you ask for change in quarters to do your laundry? Fuhgettaboutit.

Who said chivalry was dead! 

Who said chivalry was dead! 

36.)  You’re going to go apeshit over all the amazing food all up in your face around every corner. Go ahead. Eat it. Eat all of it. Then get a reality check in the summertime from a personal trainer who will inform you that you are 34.5% body fat which is considered clinically obese. You’ll reel it in with the 99-cent pizza deals and try to slowly but surely make improvements to your health. This will be a long, long, long, long, process and you’re going to try to speed it up with 30-day cleanses and miracle pills, but ultimately you’re just going to have to start trying harder to achieve the body that you want. Sorry bout it. Sexy, flat abs TBD.

37.) Don’t sweat the small stuff. Unless it’s mid-August and 103 degrees and there’s no AC in this packed subway car. Then in that case I can’t help you.

38.) You will develop your own detailed case study on crazy people ranging from “Normal Person Talking to Themselves About Lunch Options” to “DO NOT MAKE FUCKING EYE CONTACT. DO NOT MAKE SUDDEN MOVES OR REMOVE HEADPHONES. I REPEAT. DO NOT ENGAGE.”

39.) You don’t get what you don’t ask for. Unless it’s Herpes. Which you’ll frantically think you have for about 12 hours after Web MD’ing some unfortunate itchy bumps that you picked up from using a gym towel. Don’t worry. It’s nothing serious. They’ll go away after being lasered off by a very nice doctor named Carl back a home in Colorado before your healthcare expires.

40.) Making fancy new business cards will not only legitimize your existence as an artist but will also make you look professional AF to anyone you give it to. A solid bizz card says, “Don’t fuck with me! I’m a professional!...or do…here’s my email and I’d love it if we collaborated on an artistic project together.”

41.) At some point around the year mark, you’re going to be stopped in Prospect Park during a late night run by a man who you will dub “Park Jesus” for his odd yet spot-on spiritual and Yoda-like advice on breathing techniques. He’s gonna be a complete rando, but you’ll smile and nod for about 10 minutes so as to not make any sudden movements in case he’s one of those “do not engage” crazies from item #38. Don’t worry. He won’t make your skin into a lamp or anything. He’ll just tell you to inhale with your nose and exhale with your mouth and that “you gotta keep your head down, kid.” Oh. Also, he’ll turn out to be Sugar Ray Leonard.

42.) You’re going to see a lot of celebrities in the Big Apple, including Ebon Moss-Bachrach from Girls, Riz Ahmed from Star Wars, Jason Bourne, and like everything (was also on a few episodes of Girls), Justin Bartha from National Treasure, Half the cast of Orange is the New Black (Abigail Savage lives on the street where you work and you see her every single day), The side of Michelle Pfeiffer’s head, and of course, Sir Park Jesus himself, Sugar Ray Leonard, Hall of Fame Boxing Champion and apparently an avid runner at Prospect Park.

43.) Always fly Southwest because seating is open season and hey you might not get that window seat back home for Thanksgiving but instead you might sit next to a man so attractive you will immediately spill your Ginger Ale all over his lap. But don’t freak out, you’ll tell him that you’re a comedian and author which will impress him and he’ll be so nice and play twenty questions with you the entire flight and then take you to a little restaurant in the Kansas City airport and share a frittata and tater tots with you and even share that he too had an intense brain thing. Oh, and he’ll be engaged. Which really sucks but at least you made a book sale and entertained that fantasy for a while.

44.) After maintaining your single status for quite some time, you’ll get the crazy idea to start taking yourself on dates, which you will actually enjoy way more. Like infinitely more. Like so much more you honestly consider going ahead and taking those vows to become a nun cuz seriously this shit is awesome.

Me: *takes bite of pizza, but first snaps a pic for the Insta captioned #datenightswithbae

45.) Some friends from back home will say that you’ve changed, which catches you off guard at first until you realize that the change they speak of is actually growth; the purest form of you becoming a you that you don’t hate, that you respect and even admire. A you that was so hidden deep inside of you that for a minute there you thought you were actually dead; like a fish flushed down a toilet and out to sea. That’s a terrible fucking metaphor but you get the idea. Therefore, if they refer to this change in you as a negative thing, you know that Taylor Swift was right. The haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate. So yeah, you’re gonna shake it off, shake it off, cuz change = growth = power = pizza lezgoooooo.

46.) You relate deeply to the expression, “in a New York minute” because as far as you can tell you packed up two suitcases, pocketed your retirement money, and moved here yesterday. Yet somehow the opposite is also true. Because the fact that 365* days have gone by since you arrived in the city like a fresh lil’ bald baby seems impossible considering your 86-year-old knees and all the shit you’ve seen in this long, elderly NYC life of yours. You’ve actually started to believe that you’ve reincarnated at least three times since moving here, embodying the life of a starving artist, a powerful midtown CEO, and a humble but take-no-shits bodega owner. You’ve lived it all. You’ve seen it all. And yes, you’re getting too old for this shit. Oh damn, maybe you’re Benjamin Buttoning this whole thing...

47.) Your parents will come and visit you for the first time around the year mark, making you equal parts anxious and excited. They’ll criticize all the construction in the city and say things like “these stairs aren’t to code” in the subway but their smiles at you give away that they are super fucking proud of you and can’t wait until you “get on SNL” or whatever.

48.) They’d be proud of you even if you don’t get on SNL, honestly, because you’ve done something special here in this city. Just by being yourself. You didn’t sell your soul or put others down or lie or cheat to get your success. You were just you. Pure, simple, you. How fucking cool is that?

49.) It’s the coolest. So cool, that a few of your friends will come to you and reveal that they too want to move to New York City just like you did. They tell you how refreshing it is to watch somebody chase their dreams and that they want that for themselves too. At first, you don’t know what to tell them except for “STAY THE FUCK ALIVE,” but then you remember that you’ve created a mini-move-to-NYC user manual with this 3-part blog series and kindly direct them to that for their every need.

50.) Because the universe is a great comedian that gets booked more than you do, this blog post will be posted several days after your official year anniversary. Because you lose your phone. On the street. In Brooklyn. While wrestling a 3-year-old into his stroller. You try tracking it when you get home to learn that it’s mysteriously ended up at the Bronx Zoo. So you spend the next few days trying to get your shit together and buying a new phone with one of your parent’s available updates, because hey, why not. You carry on, as normal, wondering when the universe will whip up some new and impressive bullshit for you to deal with. But deep down, you know you can handle it, whatever it is. Because you’re tough; like the 100-year-old subway rails and the very foundation of the Empire State Building. The city may have brought some of this out of you, but you had it there all along; a big ol’ dallop of grit, just waiting for you to move to New York City to give it a little spin.

* This post was delayed several days due to item #50 so to maintain artistic integrity, just pretend it's July 5th, mmkay? 

1 Comment


All My Friends Are Getting Married and Having Kids...I'm Launching a Book Instead


*Disclaimer: This is NOT a piece about marriage or having children or any statement of judgment on either of these two things. If you’re my friend I’ve probably been in your wedding, held your child, or both. I love doing this for you. Please continue to let me be a part of these beautiful life milestones in whichever ways you see fit.*

Phew, glad we got that out of the way.

Now let’s get into this shit.

In the summer of 2014, I went to a friend’s wedding up in the mountains of Colorado and spent the entire time hiding my sobs underneath burlap table runners and behind adorable photobooth props.

It was snowing. In May. And she looked fucking beautiful shivering in the snow in her little cowboy boots.

But no, I wasn’t crying about that.

I wasn’t emotional because I trekked through the snow in my high heels to get to the barn or because I watched the groom cry tears of joy when he saw her walk down the aisle.

I was crying because I knew this shit would never happen to me.

At least not with the guy sitting next to me that I’d been Fake-gaged to for nearly five years (that’s ‘fake’ and ‘engaged’ if you were wondering).

Me: *gets distracted for 30 minutes* Sorry...got distracted by all the wedding porn on Pinterest...

Me: *gets distracted for 30 minutes* Sorry...got distracted by all the wedding porn on Pinterest...

This rustic and Pinterest-perfect barn wedding was not in the cards for me then.

Neither was the garden palace entrance another friend made that same year. Or the magnificent old school church setup yet another friend had the year after that.

I’ve been going to weddings non-stop since I graduated college four years ago.

I’ve seen seven-layered dips, champagne fountains, and cakes made out of maple-bacon donuts.

I’m the real life 27 Dresses except I’ve gotten smart and have recycled a few so as to not burn a hole in my non-existent wallet.

I fucking love weddings.

And while I sometimes gripe about shelling out cash for airfare, attire, and gifts, the fact of the matter is I’m stoked for this bottomless mimosa situation you’ve got going on here, my friend.

But more than the fun, I rather enjoy watching my friends be happy.

Weird. I know.

The painful part was knowing that I wasn’t happy like that.

I hid it well during the festivities, shying away from the “how are you?” questions and answering instead with, “OH MY GOD THIS IS MY FAVORITE SONG LET’S BOOGY” and sprinting to the dance floor with the 5-year-old cousin of the bride.

I didn’t want the looks of pity. Or the well-intentioned but weird commentary about my joke of a dating life.

“Oh, you’re into online dating, how…adventurous…” they laughed uncomfortably as they held hands with their significant others or patted their pregnant bellies. I imagined them having a discussion about how worried about me they were later as they brushed their teeth together.

Because that’s what you do when you’re married right, you like brush your teeth at the same time, shit I don’t know I’m not married.

For a while, I was sulky and obsessed. I thought married people my age could go suck a big fat one. I’d never say that to any of their lovely faces, obviously. But they had no idea about my single person pain.

I hated that I felt this surge of anger every time a good friend of mine “bit the dust,” but I couldn’t shake it. Especially after my big breakup left me feeling like I’d been so close to that mountain barn party only for it to go up in epic flames at the last second.

I pictured my poor guests running for their minivans from the explosion as I sat in my tarnished gown, alone because my betrothed got trampled to death by the horses in the stables, using my broken heel to roast the marshmallows from my all-you-can-eat smores buffet.

In reality, I was miles and miles from being emotionally equipt for something like marriage.

And kids? Ah, shit don’t even get me started on how un-ready I was to birth a small human out of my you-know-where (I still am by the way).

So here we are in 2018.

I’m 26. I have a health insurance plan that I don’t know how to use. Single in every sense of the word. No kids although I take care of other people’s children. With a book on the way and all saddled up for the most life-changing year of my life.

Did I mention I’m single with no kids? Have we covered that?

And guess what.

That’s fucking okay. That’s more than okay. That’s the best news I’ve heard since He Who Must Not Be Named began his stupid orange dictatorship.

I did not always believe this.

It’s taken me years to come to terms with who I actually am, and also who I’m becoming now. I’m not there yet. There are a lot of things I want to get done in my personal and professional life. I want to get better with money. I’d like to lose ten pounds or so. Get a pug puppy. I want my Ted Talk to go viral and my book(s) to become best sellers which will land my delicious, athletic booty on Ellen’s awesome white couch.

And I’ve got time, Y'all.

Holy shit I have so much time.

And I’m not really talking about marriage or kids anymore, although there’s time for that too. The time I’m speaking of is the amount of hours, days, months, and years that I have in this life to love myself and what I’m doing. Time to make an imprint, no matter how small. Just a tiny speck of a scratch on this earth’s surface that proved that I was here and that I mattered.

And even if nobody sees it ̶ even if a bunch of fucking aliens pass by that lil’ speck like it’s nothing when they colonize our asses and blow this shit sky high ̶ at least I will have known that I was there.

So at the end of the day all this bullshit about some 30-year-old deadline to accomplish these life “milestones” like getting married, having kids, or having a 401-K and a stable 9 to 5?

It’s exactly what I just said. It’s bullshit.

Hopefully, you read my disclaimer, or you’re probably real mad at me right now. Maybe you’re mad because you have these things and you think I resent you (Nah, I don’t). Or you’re mad because you don’t, but desperately want them for yourself (it’s cool if yuh do).

And maybe you should be mad.

Be mad that society pushes us to care about stupid garbage values like “not dying alone.”

You know what I wanna do when I’m croaking on the side of some toilet and all my vital organs are shutting down causing me to shit my own pants and cry so loudly I might actually wake the dead (that I’m about to join)?

Be by my fucking self.

Jesus, I don’t want my family or loved ones to see me like that are you kidding me?!

Don’t you hear how ridiculous that sounds?

So onto the main attraction of this blog post.

What life changing event am I preparing for this year?

Oh, you know already! My book is coming out! HOLY SHIT I KNOW RIGHT.

So what does one do with such an epic life accomplishment?

Have a big ol’ party! With the donut cakes and champagne towers and everything!

Yes, you’re invited. And aren’t you all stoked that I don’t care who you bring as a +1? Bring your grandma, your dog, your second cousin three times removed, IDGAF! The more the merrier!


And just like my friends out there in suburbia, I’ll be taking on a lot of new responsibilities and expenses to prepare for my big day. I’ve got linens to pick out, book jackets to design for my little one, and food truck vendors to call.

I’ve got to come up with hotel plans for other people’s in-laws, prepare thank you speeches, and I will most likely spend way too much money on my dress, hair, and nails because this is my special day and you can’t put a price on happiness (yes you can it’s approximately several thousand dollars that I don’t have).

I’ve got my hands quite full.

Literally. I’ll probably be hauling 300-odd copies of my book from some warehouse to the launch party to distribute to you, my fine-ass audience.

But damn I’m going to look and feel like a million bucks up there. I’m going to have my moment in the sun and errybody’s gonna wanna have sex with me.

I’m not gonna lie, it’s not what I expected.

It’s better.

Nothing against weddings, baby showers, and the “standard” trajectory. I’m just doing things differently right now. By myself. Which is how I like it.

But I’m never really alone, am I? Because I have YOU.

Yes, you reading this right now because I probably tagged you in this and you’re like oh my god seriously quit blowing up my newsfeed with your blog posts I have better shit to do.

And I’m going to need YOUR help!

Because it turns out getting married to your dreams and birthing a book baby can get pretty expensive. There’s the venue, invitations, marketing, food, decorations, and flights back and forth once I plan on touring the U.S. for comedy shows and book signings.

It’s starting to add up, Y'all!

Which is why I’ve started a GoFundMe page and opened up a separate bank account solely for my big day and making it the best it can be.

I know you’re going to buy the book. And that makes me so happy! I’m going to enjoy that 10¢ royalty check from you so freaking much (Yes, you read that right! Welcome to my fancy author salary! Hollywood here I come! Step aside, Peasants!).

But in the meantime, I’d really appreciate it if you threw a couple dollars into my GoFundMe campaign. If you were planning on getting a Starbucks this morning, just keep walking past that twelve-armed Sea Lady and put those $5 toward your ol’ pal Memes chasing her dreams instead.

It would mean the world to me.

And if you send me your address I will hand write you a thank you card.

I just picked up like a thousand from Target. They’re cute AF.

I’m thrilled to go to all of your weddings, graduations, live-water-birthings, and your kid’s pre-pre-K coronation ceremonies. And I’m so glad to be a part of all of your stories, no matter how small my presence may be in your day to day life.

Thank you for reading and being my friend (and donating!)

Stay tuned for my book launch updates in Denver and New York City and the release of my memoir, “I’ll Be OK, It’s Just a Hole in My Head” coming to bookstores near you this September!

Click here if you'd like to pre-order my book and click here if you'd like to contribute to my GoFundMe campaign. 



1 Comment

I'm on a Health Journey, Not a Weight-Loss Journey. There's a F$@*ing Difference

Don't mind me, just gonna be conquering the world with my awesomeness over here on this bridge.   Photo by the amazing  Jajuan Burton  

Don't mind me, just gonna be conquering the world with my awesomeness over here on this bridge. 

Photo by the amazing Jajuan Burton 

It was Sunday and I was doing stand up for the first time in nearly a month.

I was rusty and I didn’t really have any new material or care to put in the effort to write better jokes.

So my good friend Kimmy lugged me out of the house and we hit two all-female open mics (Bunt Cake Mic and Laughing Buddha Ladies Mic you should try them out!). I felt empowered having all those ladies around me and excited to grab the microphone.

I felt good.

And then I got on stage.

I was doing my “brain bits” and I ended up trying a new bit about how weird it is when people say they’re sorry about my injury…which leads me to fuck with them mid-conversation and pretend like I’m remembering a bunch of repressed memories and that I didn’t actually have a brain bleed on a blind date, but that I’m remembering the person saying sorry having stabbed me in the back of the neck at brunch.

Et tu, Britney?!

Yeah, still working on it.

Anyway, Kimmy records me on my phone and we head to the next mic where I decide to do my “Angel Dicks” premise instead, which goes well in a room full of women who are really tired of men bragging about them.

I’m funny. We’ve established that.

It was viewing the playback of the video that was the problem.

When I watched the first video I saw one word burn into the screen hotter than the stage lights on my curly mop top: “pregnant.”

I looked pregnant.

To confirm this fact, the 4-year-old I nanny poked my stomach last week and asked me if I had a baby growing inside of it.

Now before you get all woke on me about this and tell me to shut my mouth, I’d like to remind you that I get to decide how I feel about my body. Me. Just me.

So what I say kind of goes in this situation. To be clear there is quite a long list of things I actually love about my body. Including but not limited to: my kick-ass curly hair, my baby blues, and my adorable tiny feet that are so ridiculously small that they get stuck in sidewalk cracks sometimes.

That joke was for you, Kimmy.

I can blame the oversized shirt I was wearing or the lighting or the fact that I wasn't even remotely “sucking it in.” But at the end of that video, I was sure of one thing: it was time for a change.

So after a few phone calls to trusted health allies (Alexis P. and Emily H. ladies, you are simply crushing it right now and Wellness Con Katie, your community is beautiful), I decided I was going to cut the crap. I need to be healthy.

Mmmm, now don’t you notice that I didn’t say SKINNY?!

Did you catch that little detail?

If you don’t recall, I’d attempted a health journey last summer and documented my results on my blog. I tried a 30-day Cleanse Diet program suggested by a great friend and experienced some initial success.

FYI I'd just eaten a giant grilled cheese sandwich, a bag of Doritos, and was sucking it in for the After Shot but YAY GO ME I AM STILL UNHEALTHY AF.

FYI I'd just eaten a giant grilled cheese sandwich, a bag of Doritos, and was sucking it in for the After Shot but YAY GO ME I AM STILL UNHEALTHY AF.

But there was a problem. For that attempt, I’d only wanted the Before and After shot; the famous picture I’d seen so many of my friends posting on their Facebooks and Instagrams the past year. I wanted that too! I wanted to wake up and casually post a pic of the new me, the better me. I wanted all my ex-boyfriends to slide into my DM’s and tell me how foolish they’d all been in leaving my sexy new ass.

As one would imagine, I gained it all back (and then some) almost instantly. And with it, an even lower sense of self-worth.

See, because of my fucking mindset. Oh, and cheese fries.  

I’d gone into that “weight-loss” journey with just that, an unrealistic goal to lose weight on a scale. Nothing else.

I didn’t care to educate myself on nutrition, I just wanted to pop a pre-made smoothie in the blender and forget about it. I didn’t want to read up on exercise techniques. I figured I would just run a few miles every couple of weeks and call it good.


Because changing your body is hard work.

It requires almost a complete overhaul of lifestyle to truly see a difference. And the fact of the matter is that most of us don’t want to alter our belief system just to fit into skinny jeans.

But we really should.

And that’s what I’m doing right now. I’m educating myself on my own body, talking to people who have had successes of their own, and trying to find the best path for me. I’m listening to podcasts, reading books, and joining online communities where I can learn about this weird sack of human bones and muscles and fats and awesomeness that I walk around in all day but have no idea how it actually works.  

But as cool as that is, somehow I’ve still caught some flak for it.

From friends, family, the internet.

“You don’t need that fancy gym membership!”
“You’re wasting your precious money!”
“Those supplements are all evil!”
“Your personal trainer is an anarchist!”

And y’all mean well! Really, you do. The intent behind these statements is surely: “I love you and I want you to be happy!”

And I love you for this intent.

But do you know what those words really do?

They take the wind right out of my sails and make me feel like a god damn lunatic. Like everything I’m doing is somehow wrong and I should stop doing all of it because that’s what everyone is telling me to do and they love me so they must be right, right?


My suspicions are that people who love me say these things because they themselves wouldn’t do them. They wouldn’t spend the time or money or take a risk that might not pan out. And hey, that’s cool. You don’t have to!

It really is an investment. Not just monetarily, but emotionally, physically, and probably spiritually to some degree.

So far for me, it has been very taxing on my pocketbook and my planner. This is a choice I made because I lack the skills and motivation to do this journey alone. And maybe that will change down the road once I get a solid foundation.

But it’s like that one little company called Microsoft that a few people invested in back in the 80's and everyone was all, “what are you doing Bill Gates this technology stuff is crazy AND THE ROBOTS WILL KILL US ALL.

Who are we to judge if a few of those silly investors just so happen to be multi-millionaires now?

You didn’t invest.

Shit, I didn’t invest. But I was also not alive.

There’s also an added element here that we should consider, and that’s my favorite thing about me: my brain injury.

2014 was a real rough year for my body. Immediately after a breakup that summer I lost about 15 pounds because I stopped eating and started running like a crazy person. A real rom-com stereotype. My roommates tried to force-feed me but I just couldn’t bring myself to eat. I was depressed.

And then my head exploded and I lost another 20 lbs. of muscle mass.

Fucking muscle mass, you guys!

I also temporarily lost my taste buds on the left side of my tongue so not only was I so sick I couldn’t eat, but if I did I couldn’t enjoy it anyway.

Fast forward to me leaving the brain rehabilitation center after several weeks of regaining my motor functions, and I walk out with…wait for it…a pamphlet on nutrition!

With pictures of vegetables on it!

Yay for me! I can eat veggies on a white circular plate!

Well, my taste buds came back, y’all. And like, have you heard of mac and cheese though?

There was no guidance, no mentorship when it came to this sort of thing. I had no tools for nutrition or wellness post-injury and I was so god damn tired all the time from relearning how to walk that I wasn’t about to start rewiring my belief system too.

And I don’t regret that.

Do you have any idea how good food tastes when you can’t taste for 3 months?

It was like a multi-layered foodgasm every time I put something in my mouth. And it was fucking awesome.

But here I am, four years later, refusing to post an Instagram comedy video because I can’t stand the sight of my own body bombing up on the stage.

But you know what? My eyes are open now. Painfully so.

I had my first (and complimentary!) personal training visit at my gym and she pinched some fat on my arms and tummy to reveal that I was 34.5% body fat.

Above 30% is considered…obese!

I was shocked. And honestly not that surprised. And more than anything, I really wanted to understand what had gone wrong since my slimmer glory days. Back when I played college ice hockey but still ate whatever I wanted and could somehow fit into any clothes I needed to. I still wasn’t healthy back then, but at least I could squeeze into my jeans from high school.

But I’m not looking to lose weight. I actually don’t want to lose anything. I want to gain. I want to gain confidence and strength and willpower and lift a fucking car over my head just because I can.

This, my friends, is a true health journey.

It’s not a 30-Day Gut-Busting Juice Diet or a Slim-Down-Now Extreme Exercise Subscription. It’s not going to happen quickly. And I’m going to be a real human about it and eat a piece of chocolate if I want a piece of chocolate. Just not the whole bag. And I’m not going to be shameful about it either.

It’s a brain game. And I have a long way to go to truly understand what my brain and body really need in order to be healthy and operating at peak performance. There’s a reason I fall asleep standing up at work every day at 3:30 PM and cycle back into unhealthy eating habits to try to temporarily ease the emotional pain.

I’m not healthy. And that’s something you can’t always see on a little number on a scale. It’s deep inside my body, cradled inside my neurons and in the dark corners of my mind.

I’ve got my work cut out for me. And I hope that you do too. I hope that you seek knowledge as power and work your ass off for what really counts: health.

And I hope you keep your well-intentioned (and bullshit) weight-loss remarks to yourself 😂❤️️👏

Editor's Note: As of this morning's measurements with my Personal Trainer, I am down approximately 5 lbs. of fat with a total body fat composition of 30.6%. Ah, hell yeah. 

1 Comment

1 Comment

You Can Take the Teacher Out of the Classroom But...

My collection of weird teenagers during our final Comedy Club meeting.

My collection of weird teenagers during our final Comedy Club meeting.

Ah, damn it.

Are you serious? I thought we were done with this teacher shit.

Didn’t you like set your classroom on fire and run away to New York or something?

Nah, brah.

They’re back.

And I don’t mean the students I just sent to the Dean’s office for the millionth time.

I mean the feels.

They’re back with a vengeance and a lot of tear-stained tissues.

We are quickly approaching my one-year quit-iversary of being a high school teacher and boy it’s been a crazy 365ish days! Do you smell something burning? Oh, it’s my pants? My pants are on fire because that’s just a perfect metaphor for my insane lifestyle right now?

Great. Glad we’re all on the same page.

On this particular (and currently post-work and pantsless) evening, I am having trouble focusing. I spent the afternoon nannying with the world’s goofiest boys as always. But when I returned home I had only one thing on my mind: writing.


But what shall I write tonight? Will it be what’s behind door number 1, an episode of my new podcast that I need to finish by next week or I will look like a fool in front of my very first guest?

Will it be door number 2, a few hundred words of my 3rd memoir that I believe will be the key to unearthing myself from my seasonal depression?

How about door number 3, an article I decided to write yesterday for McSweeney’s on my inability to hold down jobs as a barista?

Or maybe even door number 4, a few minutes of stand up comedy related to the incidents leading to door number 3?

Just as I begin to open door number 1, I decide I really should clip my fingernails…

But then there was the matter of a second dinner and engaging in a glass of wine session with my roommate proved to be of utmost necessity.

And then I had to check my email.

And then I had to Google a few things really quick for no apparent reason other than to convince a private investigator in the future that I am a complete sociopath.

And then I absolutely needed to check my Instagram.

Now before I lose you, this is where shit gets interesting.

See, because there was a tiny little notification in the corner of my Insta informing me that somebody had left me a message. How exciting! Maybe it’s one of those cute guys I’ve been not-so-secretly cyber-stalking for the past few months…

UhhhhhhNOPE it’s a former student.

Now, this former student is a very special former student to me. A student who I spent many after schools with, typing away into a miniature Chromebook as she talked at top speeds, trying desperately to capture her genius. This was how we wrote her papers. Me at the keyboard and her getting her thoughts into the air as quickly as possible before they left us both in the dust.

I fucking love this student.

Of all the students to hear from at this hour, I am NOT mad about this one popping into my little inbox.

Not only was she always in that front row ready to listen to whatever ridiculous thing that came out of my mouth every single day, but she actually heard me. She heard me and she understood me.

And when I learned that she was struggling with a neurological disorder I was all over that shit. I was on the phone with Mom consistently, pestering her other teachers about letting her take her tests orally instead of on a scantron, I mean I'm pretty convinced I'd hide a body for this young lady, okay. 

About a year ago I revealed my social media accounts to her and some of my favorite students in the wake of the news that I was quitting. I’m not entirely sure why I did it, other than wanting to be that weird teacher who keeps tabs on their kids from time to time to make sure they’re not drinking from red solo cups or dating shitty people. Maybe I really did just want the followers, who the hell knows.

I’m young and hip and annoying so it makes sense.

Every few months I get an email, Facebook message, or Snapchat from a kiddo. The majority of them are innocent and not weird. Aside from a kiddo that called me cute (after seeing a picture of 16-year-old me LOL) and a few daily Snapchat bombardments with just the word “STREAKS” on them which seemed excessive and strange, we’re all good with this whole former student-teacher social media game.

I won’t run into any of them at the grocery store or the gym anytime soon and I’m sure if I end up settling back down in Colorado someday they’ll have long forgotten about lil’ old me and the windowless classroom we once shared all those years ago.

So here she is, my sweet, sweet girl.

And what does she have to say this evening? It’s not a text, or a random picture of her dog (although that is encouraged) but rather two pictures of a handwritten letter from a notebook.

“Hey I just found this and I never gave it to you because I never finished it and I’m sorry for the handwriting…lol”

Hold on to yer butts, folks, cuz you bout to shed some serious tears…

The letter reads:

September 27, 2016

I just wanted to say thank you so much for sharing your story with us. I understand that can be really hard and I’m really sorry you went through all of that. I’m sorry the response you got wasn’t respectful or caring. I have so much respect for you and what you’ve gone through I wish the vibe and open-mindedness was here in the class more. I see how much you care and wanna help these kids. You have such a big heart and I can see that! The way you are about us is unbelievable. You deserve so much from life and I hope you get that. It’s not fair that your emotions aren’t being reacted to or are taken into thought. I want you to know I hear everything you’re saying! I’m so happy to say I have a teacher that I connect so much with and you didn’t even know it. We have the same passion and visions for the school and just life in general. You can see the beauty of life as I do. I aspire to be like you and keep hope for change. Lately with everything going on it’s been really hard to keep that but your words have started a spark a light back inside me and I just wanna tell you that you are making a change and with everything you’ve been going and still trying to get pieces of you back. I have so so so much respect for you. Thank you for your letter! It really meant a lot to see that someone cared when I had nothing from anyone and was losing hope and strength. You reminded me that I’ve always been a fighter and whatever is going on won’t impact me the way it has been. I want my life back and I will get it back. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do but I won’t let it get a hold of me and change who I am. You’ve been helping me in so many ways without even trying. You are so important to a lot of people and I appreciate you. I love the way [you] meditate, your style, the little things you like ̶  *

Now if you can’t see your screen properly because the tears are flowing so heavily it’s practically Niagra Falls in this shit…YES, SHE REALLY SAID THESE WORDS AND YES, THE WALLS OF MY UTERUS ARE SHEDDING MAKING IT 20 BILLION TIMES WORSE.

She wrote them actually. Which is a big deal considering all those modifications we made to her History papers. She wrote the words on a piece of paper during what I can only tell you was one of the most terrifying and life-changing weeks of my life (alright second only to brain surgery).

It was actually the very week I first had the thought to move to New York City.

Now is that some cosmic shit or what?

I never saw the letter then, you see because that wouldn’t have been nearly as cool (although I still would have bawled my eyes out like I did just now).

Instead she’s sending me this NOW, days after losing a job, feeling a little bit sorry for myself, and around the same time frame that I remember last year was filled with summer anticipation, fear, and a fuck-ton of phone calls to parents telling them that their child was failing and needed to get their shit together like three semesters ago.

This unbelievably sweet letter comes at a time when I’ve started to settle into a certain lifestyle here in New York that I enjoy, but I’m also mourning the loss of the one I left behind. And most of all, mourning the loss of all the kids those two years who made me feel like I was a person who mattered.

Not some face in a crowded subway to be squeezed past or just another name on the lineup at a comedy show to be quickly crossed out at the end of my set, but a person who fucking counts.

It’s a feeling we so rarely talk about when we talk about work or success or joy or happiness.

It’s a feeling I want to replicate for the rest of my god damn life.

But I was suffocating.

My classroom had no windows. I was literally gasping for oxygen every single day for two whole years.

In that amount of time, I’d had more panic-induced mental breakdowns in the teacher’s lounge and in front of 5th period than I cared to remember. And that was just it, I didn’t want to remember.

The day she wrote that letter I don’t think I’d showered in days and my eyes were probably still puffy from crying over my recent tough break up. I was at my lowest low when this KID decided to open her notebook and tell me that I was real and that I mattered to her and to many others.

What had I said that day to deserve this little love letter? What ‘story’ was she talking about?

You know what, I honestly have no clue.

I can’t remember.

My guess is something brain-related. A story about maneuvering a wheelchair or learning how to do 3rd-grade math problems in rehab perhaps? Or something less recent? A story about being scared I’d lose my dad when he got into a car accident behind our house when I was in high school? Maybe I’d really fallen off the wagon and told the entire class that I’d just ended the best relationship I’d ever had in the most heartbreaking way possible…

What in the fuck came out of my mouth that day and how did it have the power to possess her to write such touching and honest words?

I’ll never know.

And I don’t have to.

What I do know is that I’m still a teacher.

Try as I might to lock that part of myself in my parent’s storage unit back in Colorado, I am still here.

Teaching and sharing and encouraging like I always have.

Making stupid jokes and telling people not to give up even when every fiber of their being is telling them to abandon all hope.

That’s my job.

And a year ago I thought I’d hung up the hall pass for good. I thought I was running away. I emptied the entire contents of my classroom into my car and then into that storage unit and shut the door tightly behind me, hoping to never look back for fear of confronting my deepest and darkest insecurities.

The little voice in my head that whispered, “You couldn’t hack it as a teacher. You weren’t tough enough.

The opposite is actually the truth. Not only was I tough enough, but I was SO tough that I had to quit so that I could give everyone a god damn breather from how intense I was.

I’m like fucking Rocky Balboa before he’s all old and shit.

So what am I doing now you ask?

I’m actually still teaching.

Yes, I literally teach comedy writing classes on the Upper West Side on Monday nights, but I actually teach every day of the year.

I teach when I get on a stage and share a story.

I teach when I write my books.

I teach when I encourage a new friend to keep doing comedy even though it’s really fucking hard.

I teach when I tell people about my life.

I teach when I blog.

I teach when I podcast.

I teach the 4-year-old to ask more questions and the 2-year-old to tell me when he shits his diaper instead of just letting it sit there and making me look like the World’s Worst Nanny at the play place.

Just because I’m not suffocating in a public school classroom 80 hours a week, 10 months out of the year on slave wages doesn’t make me any less of a teacher.

I’m actually an even better teacher now that I’ve left that environment. The proof is in the handwritten letters. This is not an outlier. There are at least 200 letters much like this one tucked away just waiting for my blubbery eyes to discover; some back in the storage unit and about 50 stacked up on my nightstand right now.

And on my worst New York days, I turn to these letters and I remember who I am.

I am a teacher. And I matter.

Now pull out your damn headphones and let’s get to work.

My notorious 5th Period cheesin' during our Civil Rights Museum project day...

My notorious 5th Period cheesin' during our Civil Rights Museum project day...

*Student gave permission to publish this letter.

1 Comment


30 Things You Should Do Instead of Building an IKEA Storage Bed (Brain Injury Awareness Edition)

Oh, I'm "set" am I? The only thing that's set over here is this nail that's gone clean through my middle finger, YOU CHEAP-EXCUSE-FOR-FURNITURE MOTHER FU-

Oh, I'm "set" am I? The only thing that's set over here is this nail that's gone clean through my middle finger, YOU CHEAP-EXCUSE-FOR-FURNITURE MOTHER FU-

Oh hiiii friends! Almost didn’t see you there from under this pile of shelves and assorted tools that I don’t know how to use!

If you didn’t know, I have the soul of a 75-year old retiree named Marge who just loves to craft. And build. And tell everyone at the E.R. that the power drill was “really being finicky today” as they stitch up my little old lady hands for the millionth time.

I’ve been haphazardly trying to build things since I was a kid; cutting up old doll dresses and trying to sew them back together in new ways, hot-gluing marbles on wine bottles, and even hauling a broken dresser into my apartment and refinishing it.

It’s like I think I’m a carpenter or some shit.

Which I guess I technically am since I come from a carpenter-turned-architect father and a mother who used to make me every complex Halloween costume I demanded with not even a smidge of bitterness or resentment.

I can’t explain it. But there’s something that happens in my brain when I see a piece of wood, some Mason jars, and a handful of mismatched buttons. It’s like a switch goes on and I see it.

A project. A fucking cool project.

Since my first hot-glue gun purchase back in high school, I’ve been slowly getting more and more ambitious with my crafting endeavors.

I started with small things; those bejeweled wine bottles, painting old wood I found on the street and transforming it into coat racks and cutesy accessory shelves.

But this time. This time I did it. I really did it.

I screwed the pooch on this one.

Okay, alright. I hate that saying. But you get it. I really did myself in with this last project, okay you guys.

Before I get knee deep into telling you all the things you should do INSTEAD of this crafting project, let me just tell you that IKEA is a joke, mmkay?

Always has been. You know this already.

And I get to say this because I spent a summer in college behind the register at the Denver location getting my shit rocked by angry moms and impatient people who’d just spent the last 5 hours in a wormhole and blamed me for the very concept of the store.

Assemble yourself? Tools sold separately? You think I came up with this idea?

Okay, so maybe my previous monologue about my childhood as an amateur craftsman would lead you to believe that this was all my doing, but I don’t make the rules, okay lady?

Anyway. I found this guide on the IKEA website called the Square Footage Challenge.

And let me just say. This 10-step, happy-go-lucky, look-how-easy-this-all-is guide is buuuuulllshiiiiit.

Fool me once, well, shit, now I'm just bleeding and covered in cheap wood shavings. 

I won’t derail my mission too much here, but suffice it to say that this guide is not legitimate if you live in the United States. Or specifically, if you live in New York. Or if you’re a human being. And especially not if you’re a human being living in New York, U.S.A.

But seeing as I’m Marge, the adorable old lady in your local hood who likes to buy fresh flowers for my table that nobody sees but me cuz' my husband is dead and my grandkids all have microchips in their heads and are too busy anyway, I just had to indulge in my creative calling.

It’s a storage bed. Made of, wait for it…kitchen cabinets!

So much storage! What a great idea for my tiny New York room with no closet cuz who needs a closet when you’re LIVING YOUR DREAMS (lol, me actually it turns out)?!

So anyway there I was, standing in a line at 9:59 AM waiting for a you-take-your-job-way-too-seriously security guard to open up the caution-taped gates into IKEA, land of broken furniture dreams and divorces waiting to happen, and I think I’m gonna be smart and avoid the maze and just cut straight to the customer service reps. Surely if I show them a picture of my dream bed they’ll kindly press a few buttons on their magic computer and summon all the parts and tools I need to bring this fairytale furniture project to life.

Oh, yeah. THAT totally happened.

Instead, I was ordered to go up to the Kitchen’s department, through the maze I was trying to avoid, and take up my request with them.

Cue a 30-minute interlude of shots of me running around in circles, coming across the same rug every time shouting, “DAMN YOU IKEA. DAMN YOU MARGE. DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL” intermixed with light war cries and intermittent sobbing.

At this point, you’d think I’d have had the sense to quit the project altogether.

But Marge never says die (and I already had the Uhaul for another 12 hours…), so I found the Kitchen’s department and committed myself to dropping several hundred dollars on cabinets that I had no idea would work out or not.

If you’re at all curious, the cabinets in the guide are not available in the United States. Just one more piece of evidence that should have alerted me that this project was just too damn extra and I really should have quit while I was ahead.

But no matter, Marge can compromise! We’ll take the other cabinets! They are white just like the ones in the picture that inspired this madness and surely they’ll do the trick.

Oh, Marge. You naïve and adorable little bastard, you.

Purchase made! I regret nothing and also everything and I’m not even worried about this whole cabinet building excursion because ̶

Wait…you guys? How am I supposed to get all this heavy shit (including 3 large MDF boards that I had chopped down to size at the Home Depot after about an hour of trying to defend my honor against at 19-year-old in the Lumber department who didn’t get why I was doing all this when I could just do…I don’t know, literally ANYTHING else) up to my apartment? Or into the truck for that matter? Also, how am I going to park this thing in front of the apartment?

These tiny but important steps were not in my 10-step guide, of course. The next 2 hours proceeded in a very hazardous manner; including but not limited to:

  • Scraping my hands on the wood when trying to wrestle them out of the Uhaul
  • Parking the Uhaul around the corner and sweating heavily making trips back and hoping for a kind stranger to ask, “Do you need help?” which never happened
  • Pulling a back muscle because I can’t lift 50-pound cabinets correctly
  • Dragging the boards into the apartment lobby and damaging them
  • Saying fuck it and leaving the cabinets and boards in the lobby with sticky notes that read: “Please don’t steal, I’m not strong enough to get these up the stairs” until my roommate came home to help me airlift the heavy fucks into the apartment (shoutout to my main squeeze, Simone, you the real MVP!)
  • More intermittent screaming and crying

You really should have been there. It was quite captivating.

No seriously. You should have been there. That would have been a huge help. 

Me: (Googles 'damn you gif' finds gif of her actual friend Tiffany)

Me: (Googles 'damn you gif' finds gif of her actual friend Tiffany)

And that was just getting the materials, people.

Needless to say, the building part took me an entire day. Mistakes were made. Tears were shed. And a tiny chunk of skin came off my middle finger during a particularly rough tussle with a screwdriver.

I don’t know about y’all, but Marge is starting to sound like a damn psychopath.

But at the end of all the errors and corrections, I’d done it. I’d built the damn thing.

It wasn’t perfect by any stretch of the imagination, and I had to take a break with the doors and shelves because at that point I feared for my own safety if I continued my course being that tired and bloodied.

But I did it. I built a bed.  

If you think this is cool and want to build your own bed just take a moment to slap your own hand across your face. Don’t do it, okay? DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME. DO NOT PASS GO. DO NOT SPEND $500 DOLLARS.

Instead, here’s a nifty list of 30 things you can do INSTEAD of building an IKEA storage bed:

  1. Order a simple boxspring from Amazon or even some cool bed raisers and slide your luggage, shoes, and various shit underneath the bed.
  2. Pay IKEA $75 to assemble your furniture.
  3. Pay some rando on Craigslist $15 to assemble your furniture.
  4. Never go to Pinterest, IKEA.com, or any crafting website to avoid exposure to unrealistic projects.
  5. Leave your bed on the floor as a statement of how cool and bohemian you are.
  6. Read a nice book instead.
  7. Consult your friends and loved ones if you get the urge to build your own bed lasting longer than 4 hours.
  8. Call up that nice therapist you had that one time, I’m sure she’s into helping you out with this whole thing.
  9. Take up gardening. But only if by gardening you mean succulents. Those are small and manageable and hardly ever die even if you don’t water them for years at a time.
  10. Go hang out at the Dog Park and make some new friends.
  11. Start a nice blog for your mom and cousins in Alabama to read.
  12. Research if you actually have cousins in Alabama.
  13. Make your blog about finding your long-lost cousins in Alabama.
  14. Book a trip to Alabama and enjoy the local culture while you search for your cousins.
  15. Check your bank account on your mobile. Did you know you can do that now?
  16. Reflect on all the outrageous purchases you made on your vacation in Alabama.
  17. Enroll in a 401K, get an IUD, or join the KGB.
  18. Watch a good Bruce Willis film.
  19. Watch any Bruce Willis film.
  20. Listen to Taylor Swift’s newest album.
  21. Pick a fun recipe that only uses 3 ingredients.
  22. Research new healthcare plans to enroll in once yours expires in a few days.
  23. Go to a Bubble Tea place when they’re having a 2 for 1 sale and then shit your pants from all the sugar in those damn things.
  24. Go to a coffee shop and eavesdrop into a very serious conversation in which a young Indian man asks an elderly white man for advice on "how to get more pussy."
  25. Get on a bus and get off at a random stop.
  26. Make an online dating profile.
  27. Delete your online dating profile.
  28. Use the money you would have spent on an IKEA storage bed an invest it in Apple. Or even better, something that actually fucking matters. Like cancer research. Or getting all the whales out of Sea World.
  29. Take a class on Finance.
  30. Sell a kidney. 

As we wrap up March, which is Brain Injury Awareness month and my favorite month of the year, I’d like to take a moment to reflect on this experience and how it relates to my overall journey and ultimately, my fucking unshakable stubbornness. 

Losing your independence changes a person.

And in 2014 pretty much everything was taken away from me when my head exploded. It was infuriating. I couldn’t walk, I was exhausted and dizzy all the time, I had to relearn 3rd-grade math problems.

So when I got it all back, I was adamant about doing things on my own, pretty much to a fault. 

I didn’t want help reaching things or getting to the bathroom. I wanted to do shit on my own. Because I was an adult. And I wanted to feel like it.

Recovering from my brain injury made me even more stubborn about doing things on my own than I already was. If that’s even fucking possible.

When I try to do something now ̶ lifting a box, reaching for a high shelf, assembling my own furniture ̶ and if that thing is hard for me? Of forget it, I’m for sure doing that thing no matter how many fingers I lose in the process.

I do that thing like my life depends on it.

And if you think about it, it kind of does.

The act of proving to myself every day that I can do something is like my own mini Olympics. And every Gold medal will be the pride and joy of Braintown for decades to come.

I will never be building an IKEA storage bed again.

And honestly thinking about moving in a year or two gives me mild PTSD just thinking about how I’m going to dismantle and probably dispose of this thing.

But I did it. I built an IKEA storage bed. AND YOU CA̶

Hahahahah just kidding. Don’t do it. Whatever you do, don’t build an IKEA storage bed. If you have any damn brain cells left after this blog post please, for the love in all that is holy, step awaaaaay from the table saw.

But if you do, Marge will be here with a power drill and some band-aids if you ever need them!



50 (More) Things You Learn Your First 6 Months In New York City

Just moments after taking this picture I lost my metrocard...

Just moments after taking this picture I lost my metrocard...

Oh hey again.

It’s me.

The clueless curly-headed buffoon jolly-romping around New York City and getting on all the wrong trains (still).

Because I only operate on a shit-show level of 57 and obviously need more things to fill my schedule right now, I thought I’d go back to my first posting back in July and see what I’ve learned now that I’m officially a New Yorker (just kidding Mom don’t disown me it was a JOKE).

Here are a few (more) things I’ve learned after roughly six months in The Big Apple…

1. All the friends you thought you’d see and hang out with every day like an episode of Broad City…you still haven’t hung out with. Because we live in NYC. And they, like you, have approximately a 20-minute window of time to offer on any given day, or month, maybe year for spontaneous social gatherings.

2. Renting an apartment in New York is exactly like Broad City told you it was though. Down to the creepy-ass apartment in a basement crawling with roaches that looked amazing in the photographs, quirky character realtors, and a sinking reality that you live in the most expensive city in the world, maybe even the universe.

Me: I need to make how much to live here?

Realtor: 100K

Me: *starts laughing*

Realtor: What’s so funny?

Me: Oh, for a second there I thought you said $100,000-

Realtor: That’s correct

Me: If you’ll excuse me I’m just gonna- (approaches fire escape and attempts to leap off of it)

3. But when you do find a place in your price range (yes, it’s possible) you are expected to promptly hand over every tax return you never knew you had, letters from employers explaining how great of a person you are, and might as well be asked to do a backflip in the kitchen right then and there to get the apartment. Oh, and did we mention how much money you’re expected to hand over on the spot? Yeah, this is going to run you and your roommates (because you need those) roughly $8,000. Mmmmm feels so gooooood.

4. Just because Google Maps tells you that your destination is less than 3 miles away it doesn’t mean you’re actually going to get there quickly. Actually, I can pretty much guarantee that you won’t. The MTA has made damn sure of that.

5. While we’re on the MTA, it’s pretty much a known fact that it might take you five different subway lines to get to your destination because the one that would be the most convenient isn’t running today. Or it just isn’t running for your stop. Therefore, you should be fully prepared to take several different subways, walk to a bus station, get stranded in some random neighborhood, and just say fuck it and get a Lyft which is just included in your budget now and you’d be out of your mind to attempt any other means of transportation short of walking your ass all the way to the Upper West Side.

6. You have actually walked your ass up to the Upper West Side and it actually made your ass feel quite fancy.

7. Not every part of New York is like it’s portrayed in the movies. Sure, you get a thrill everytime you see the Empire State Building light up all cool-like. And maybe you think nearly getting hit by a taxicab is kind of nostalgic and Hollywood. But nothing can prepare you for the smell of trash day in NYC. Which pretty much every day in NYC. And no amount of romantic comedy watching can take away from the fact that there are gigantic, smelly trash-castles lining the streets of New York making you seriously question your life decisions and hold your nose all the way through Midtown.

Mmmmmmmmmmm, smells so yummy!

Mmmmmmmmmmm, smells so yummy!

8. Just because you’re from Colorado doesn’t mean you understand Winter. It turns out you know very little about Winter and will be smacked so hard into reality by “The Bomb Cyclone” that you start crying in the middle of the street because you thought this was your heavy jacket.

9. After the shock of humidity and windchill, you’re going to spend an hour and a half in a hot shower and immediately order an Arctic-level jacket, long underwear, and heated socks from Amazon using your Christmas money.

10.  Real New Yorkers are going to take pride in making fun of said Arctic-level jacket and laugh at you constantly because it truly resembles a sleeping bag but you don’t give a fuck because at least you’re warm now. Until the weather shifts radically to the other end and you’re caught wearing Big Blue and are now sweating through it, leaving tiny drips of sweat behind you as you walk.

Gage (age 2) modeling "Big Blue" before a trip to the corner store for stickers.

Gage (age 2) modeling "Big Blue" before a trip to the corner store for stickers.

11. A “Do Not Walk” sign is a challenge to a New Yorker. And you don’t generally think of yourself as a risk-taker, but you sometimes find yourself following a brave soul out into the middle of a street because hey, you’ve got somewhere to be, right?

12. Food delivery services like Blue Apron are great for single people living in New York who don’t want to spend $1,000 on eating out.

13. Just kidding, you can’t do Blue Apron because some asshat on your block has figured out when you get yours delivered and is stealing them off your front porch while you’re at work. ENJOY THE FILET MIGNON ASSHOLEEEEEEE.

14. New Yorkers aren’t lying when they say it’s all about who you know. It seriously is. And even if you’re an introvert and don’t like talking to other humans, there’s this great thing I’ve discovered called Facebook Groups that allow you to network with complete strangers in New York who are somehow totally down to hook you up with all kinds of cool shit like jobs, gigs, apartments, and more! I’m not exaggerating on this one. Pretty much every cool thing I’ve found in New York (and most of my jobs I now have) came through hitting somebody up on a Facebook Group. You’re welcome.

15. Speaking of who you know, did you know that it’s entirely possible to get a book deal from meeting some random guy at an improv show who happens to know a publisher? I mean at least that’s how it happened for me. Which is pretty cool considering my method of cold-emailing agents and hating myself wasn’t really working out too well for me.

16. It’s entirely possible to end up living out the New York 20 roommates stereotype for a few months. And joke to all your friends that you live in a commune. Which you kind of do, let’s be honest. But this co-living lifestyle allows you to slowly start writing stories about the weirdos you live with which you plan on keeping to yourself until you move out in a month or so. And then there’s really no holding you back. You’ve got an hour-length comedy special about the weird shit that went down in that commune.

17. Sometimes you’re going to feel alarmed when a stranger smiles at you. Yeah, really alarmed. That shit’s weird. Where are we? In the twilight zone? Don’t you see I have my fuck-off earphones and resting bitch face on?

18. Homesickness will come and go at random times. In one moment you’re crying by yourself on a subway because you saw someone refuse to give up their seat to an old lady and the next you’re feeling like Jack in that scene from Titanic where he’s all like “I’M THE KING OF THE WORLD.” These two emotions will probably occur on the same day, if not simultaneously.

19. You’re going to try to get smart and use a different airport every time you fly home just to research which is the easiest one to fly in and out of. Which the answer is none of them. Especially since you don’t have a car anymore and will convince yourself that the public transportation to LaGuardia can’t be that bad.

20. You’re never going to get anywhere in under an hour. I don’t care who you are or where you think you’re going. It’s not going to happen for you.

21. Dating in New York is a joke.

22. Dating in New York is a joke.

23. Dating in New York is a joke.

24. It’s a joke because New York has this beautiful shiny glow to it that convinces everyone that there’s always something, or someone, better out there so no need to go past a first date really because who gives a fuuuuuuck.

25. For this reason you will spend a lot of time explaining to the 4-year-old you nanny why you don’t have a husband or children for him to go on playdates with.

26. It’s entirely possible to get away with not paying for a gym membership. All you have to do is sign up for a “free day” at every gym in every borough. You don’t even have to use a fake name. There are that many different kinds of gyms to try.

27. You eventually might want to get real and get a gym membership because all this 99¢ pizza has really gone directly to your hips and that’s just not okay.

28. You’re going to get sick virtually all the time. But at least you can try to convince yourself that you’re building up your immunity for the day when the next deadly monkey germ hits the East Coast.

29. Swallowing your sketchy bag of vitamins on the subway is a great way to get people not to sit next to you, but at least you know you’re getting your daily dose of Vitamin I Don’t Give a Fuck.

30. When you look back on your first days in New York, you laugh because you were SOOOO worried about getting a job. And then you have to stop laughing because you now have five jobs. All of which require a different part of your brain, separate skills, and will create quite the interesting story on your tax forms next year.

31. You were worried about running out of money and having to head home like a failure. And now you’re like “how many minutes do I have to cram this sandwich in my face in between my barista gig and my nanny gig?” and “can I make it to Queens for this comedy show after teaching my writing class?” and “should I take this $20 freelance gig and write a 400-word piece about how to winterize your pipes?

32. The answer to these questions are “approximately five,” “yes,” and “hell yes.”

33. You always used to think about the word “hustle” in terms of drugs, as in, someone smuggling them across a border. Now when you think about the word, it’s just a gigantic picture of your tired-ass face plastered in a dictionary. Your parents might refer to you as “deranged,” but they’re also real impressed that you found a way to live rent-free in New York City for about six months (you managed the commune, like an adult RA, that’s how).

34. Time works differently in New York. Even though you want things to happen magically and overnight like they do in the movies, it doesn’t work that way. But patience is key. And your hard work will pay off down the line if you wait for it. I think this is why some people come here in the first place; they want an immediate change from the lives they’re living. They want that New York magic. And believe me, this place is fucking magical. But sometimes you have to wait a little longer for some stars (shit, half a star) to align. And when that happens there is no better feeling in the damn world.

35. If you don’t believe me, ask the guy that was sitting on the park bench near Prospect Park when I got the email that I was going to be published. I don’t know his name or where he lives or really anything about him. But he saw something amazing happen that day. And a lot of screaming intermixed with tears and more screaming followed by more tears.

36. You’re going to show up more on people’s radars now that you’ve moved to New York in pursuit of your dreams. Ex-boyfriends, old colleagues, some random person you met on a plane once. They’re all going to start dropping you a line and caring about your Snapchats all of a sudden. You’re fine with that. Except for the ex’s. You’d rather they shut the hell up and deal with the fact that you’re awesome (which you always were by the way).

37. Despite people finally realizing how cool you are, people are still going to flake out on you last minute. Because in New York, if I’m asking you to come to my comedy show, you’re definitely going to say you’re coming. But at the same time you can easily talk yourself out of it if you’ve had a long day at work. Or if you have a slight cough. Or if there’s something better to do within a closer proximity to you. It’s usually nothing personal. It’s just hard to convince a friend to come see you crush on a Tuesday at 11PM in Midtown. Ah, New York.

38. I’ll still be friends with you, by the way. But I’m just saying if Jimmy Fallon ever does call, I’ll be the first to forget to invite you if you’ve flaked out on me 5-7 times already.

39. Speaking of flakes…SNOWFLAKES. Ah, they’re so pretty in New York, aren’t they?

40. I apologize for that last one because I just decided maybe I’m running out of sage New York wisdom to tell all of you…

41. WAIT. Quit putting your MetroCard in your pocket! It’s going to get bent and then every day it works will feel like a god damn miracle! Get a nice plastic cover thing, or a necklace or something really nerdy but actually necessary.

42. You will trek back the to the bar in Williamsburg to find your MetroCard in a bathroom because it flew out of said pocket when you were taking care of business (#1 calm down, people!) and you will be so so thankful to be living on this amazing planet, I mean really that was a close call.

43. Even though I just said New York isn’t what Hollywood cracks it up to be, being a comedian in New York is pretty much just like that movie Don’t Think Twice and you’re pretty convinced you can be on SNL if you just dump thousands of dollars into the right improv theater or a big producer will just happen to be in the front row of your show and in dire need of a curly-headed white lady with a few hot takes on dating and yoga classes.

44. Speaking of which, you’re going to have to come up with some pretty creative responses to your grandparents at Christmas when they ask you why you aren’t on SNL yet.  

45. Some days, you’re going to look at your life and not even recognize it anymore. Which is equal parts cool and terrifying. It’s cool because your “old life” or your “pre-New York life” seems like a lifetime ago and your “new New York life” is just so fucking awesome you can’t believe you didn’t think about doing this before. It’s also terrifying because you wonder if people know how unhappy and scared of life you were back there, and you wonder if others are experiencing what you did, and are struggling to break into something new. You hope they get their acts together and move to New York, or Start teaching English in Japan, or Whatever it is they're dreaming of doing someday.

46. Life can be pretty damn lifey. No matter where you are. And for me, New York has brought out the coolest and most awful experiences of my life and somehow smooshed them into a few quick months. When I think about all the lifey shit I’ve been through since making the jump, it’s absolutely amazing that I’m still alive. Really. I’m pretty sure half of you expected me to be taken out a taxicab by now.

47. While you’re off galLIvanting in New York doing your comedy thing, your friends’ lives back home are going to change too. They’re going to call you up and invite you to their weddings and tell you about the homes they’re buying and the babies they’re having on purpose. It’s going to feel a little weird at first. You’re going to second-guess your choices for about five milliseconds. And then you’re going to snap out of it, be happy for them, and continue sending them funny Snapchats of you drunk on the subway after a great set where you shared a stage with someone who was on Conan.

48. Being on Conan is actually a lot more common than you once thought. Which makes you feel kind of not as bad about yourself when you explain to your mother that there was only one person in the audience last night at your show. His name was Steve. He was really nice. 

49. Your mother is not going to care about this detail because she’s so god damn proud of you. Yes, it stresses her and your dad out more than you will EVER understand (because you yourself don’t have kids that have run away from you to the Big Bad Apple), but the real truth is that they’re both up to their little ears in pride about what you’re doing with your life, even if they lightly shame you every once in a while or say “I told you so” every time your shit gets stolen off your front porch.

50. New York is going to be your best friend on your best days, and your worst enemy on your worst. It’s going to fill you up with sparkly magic and simultaneously kick the shit out of you on the curb in front of your cool new friends. It’s going to make you work for it. Because if you don’t, there’s just going to be a few billion other people who will. You’re going to get lost all the time and find yourself in ways you didn’t think were possible. New York is going to push your fucking buttons. But at the end of the day, you are still here. And you’re going to keep showing this city that you mean business because that’s what you were born to do.

Photo by:  Jajuan Burton  

Photo by: Jajuan Burton 

Editor’s Note: This post was actually written in Denver, Colorado. Because as the universe would have it, I’ve been invited to audition with 79 other people for a speaker position at tedxmilehigh from 14,000 applicants. Updates to come if I made it in, but honestly who gives a shit when you look at those numbers? I am crushing ittttt.  



How I Moved To New York With a Plan and Found Magic Instead

If you squint real hard you can see my best-laid plans going to shit but finding better things instead. 

If you squint real hard you can see my best-laid plans going to shit but finding better things instead. 

It’s a Tuesday night at 9 PM and I’m transcending.

I’m holding a beer standing in the back room of a bar I’ve never heard of. Big winter jacket and heavy backpack still on and weighing me down.

But right now I am light as a feather.

Because a stranger is standing on a tiny stage before me surrounded by twinkly lights playing what I can only comprehend as pure magic. He’s playing wine glasses filled with water and singing a song he wrote at the height of the Syrian refugee crisis.

It occurs to me that there are only about 15 other people in this tiny room experiencing this right now with me. I wonder if they too understand. I wonder if they know just how privileged we are to be in this room surrounded by this sound. 

My heart is so full I think I might burst into a pile of confetti on the floor.

It was a Thursday night and I saw my first improv show since moving to New York. The lights came up on the stage and I remembered the first time I fell in love with comedy; sitting on the floor in front of the TV with my sister well past our bedtimes watching reruns of Whose Line Is It Anyway? until we both fell asleep.

It’s a Monday night and I’m coming home from my day job as a nanny. I saunter through the downtown streets of DUMBO, Brooklyn and have to stop myself because the light is hitting the city across the river in such a breathtaking way that I take the long way to the subway.

The really long way.

In fact, I forgo several stops and almost walk myself all the way home.

It was another Thursday night when I followed a crowd of improvisers I didn’t know to a bar I’d never heard of and had the most important conversation of my life.

A conversation not unlike any other introductory walkthrough about who I was and why I was there in New York City.

“I’m a writer,” I announced a little unsure. “I mean my book isn’t published yet or anything, but I’m working on it.”

I guess I hadn’t realized that the words “my” and “book” might generate some interest to a complete stranger.

And some follow-up questions.

As fate, or coincidence, or even magic would have it, this particular stranger (Hey Aaron! You’re THE MAN) knew a publisher who just months later would take a chance on me and my little book, changing life as I knew it forever.

I used to be afraid of magical moments such as these.

I would watch moments of pure joy and wonder come into my life and brush them off as mere happenstance; anomalies in my overall “predictable” life.

Like that time I sat on a rooftop drinking wine in Toledo, Spain with my best friend staring up at a billion stars and a 3,000-year old cathedral thinkin' "dayum, life is good."

Oh, you know, just sitting on a roof with the most amazing view fine how are you.

Oh, you know, just sitting on a roof with the most amazing view fine how are you.

Or when my best friend and I single-handedly curated two amazing art shows in Denver with 13 artists in a gallery that we couldn't really afford with an audience of 300 people and we felt all fancy and shit. 

Here I am using fake confidence to tell an artist that I've kind of screwed something up in his exhibit. He's taking the news really well.

Here I am using fake confidence to tell an artist that I've kind of screwed something up in his exhibit. He's taking the news really well.

Or that time I went to New York City for the first time a few years ago to take an improv class just weeks before starting my short-lived career as a high school teacher.

It was there that I’d get my first real taste of the magic.

This isn’t real life,” I’d spit back to the universe as I performed on one of the most notable improv stages in the world at the end of the week-long intensive.

“I can’t actually do comedy in New York. That’s not a life I get to live. That’s just ridiculous.”

For whatever reason -fear, doubt, perceived adult responsibility- I didn’t believe in magic back then.

The idea that I could find and even create wonder in my day-to-day life terrified me. Magical moments were spontaneous, and my meticulous and planning-obsessed brain didn’t like spontaneous.

In fact, my brain fucking hated spontaneous.

It was hard enough trying to conquer the grocery store without sucker-punching someone back then, much less try to organize my life in a way that allowed for disorderly magical shit.

I returned from my week-long improv adventure in New York a bit shook up, traumatized even. For I’d seen a taste of something I didn’t think was possible or realistic for me.

“I had a lot of fun,” I told my mother (true). “But I don’t think I could ever live there.” (False).

To this day my mother recounts this very conversation as evidence enough for me to come home right this very minute you hear me. And at that time I truly didn’t think I could live in a place as magical as New York.

The night before I packed my two suitcases and took a one-way to the Holy Land, I had an epic meltdown in my parent’s kitchen while finishing a bowl of mac and cheese. 

“I’m so fucking scared,” I said, discarding my cheesy carbs and looking up from my detailed and color-coded check-list titled “New York Attack Plan.” Items included hilarious things like “Week 1- Get a job” and “Week 2- Sign a lease.

“What are you scared of?” My dad said from the sink as he scrubbed a pot.

“Dad,” I gulped. “I’m scared I’m going to fail-” The word “fail” was promptly interrupted by a cascading waterfall of ugly tears.

Oh, sweetie,” he said softly and rushed to my side. “You are not going to fail.” My tears were globbing down my pink face now and making a mess of my lovely (and supremely unrealistic) to-do list.

“First of all, you’re too stubborn to fail. You get that from me,” he chuckled. “And second, as bad as I want you to stay, I know in my heart that you’re going to get out there and do something amazing.”

My scared tears quickly turned into “why is my dad so adorable” tears and it took a bag of chocolate chips and half a box of tissues to get me down off the ugly crying ledge.

There would be a lot more ugly crying once I arrived in New York City.

There would be job rejection after job rejection. My dad would get some cancer* and I’d have over $1,000 stolen from me by a student loan scam. I’d have a heartbreak and I’d spend a lot of time on subways contemplating the meaning of life but also just staring out into no-mans-land and missing my stops.

The fear of an unknown place with a billion people zooming around my head sometimes made me question if I was going to figure my shit out without completely draining my savings account or if I was going to have to stick my thumb out and bum my way back to Colorado like a total failure.

But hey, guess what.

That didn’t happen. Because I’m still here.

Dad was right.

I’m sitting in a kid’s play studio watching the boys I nanny parkour off of gym equipment and kick soccer balls with ridiculous accuracy at my head. I’m submitting 400-word pieces to clients like banks and plumbing companies and podcasts for $15 a piece. I’m managing a 20-person co-living space that I tell everyone is a commune. I fill my days with performing plays about talking Brocolli to 4-year-olds and fill my nights with telling jokes to drunk strangers about performing plays about talking Brocolli to 4-year-olds.

And maybe this is all a little magical too.

I propelled myself into a magical life by letting magic exist in the first place. It hasn’t been easy or anything like my carefully-crafted “Attack Plan” would have predicted.

But I’m staring out of the boy’s bedroom now, tucking them in** and telling them they can’t have another popsicle. And out of the window, I can see it. The most magical of all New York structures.

The Empire Fucking State Building.

Up close and personal with Mr. Empire in 2015 probably about to get hit by a taxi while taking this. 

Up close and personal with Mr. Empire in 2015 probably about to get hit by a taxi while taking this. 

If that’s not magic I don’t know what is.


*I am happy to report that Dad is now cancer-free and as awesome as ever.

**This has been the most arduous, horrendous, and emotionally traumatizing of bedtimes for these lil ’ monsters including the 2-year old chucking a baseball directly at my eyeball during storytime, lots of tears (from them and possibly me), and a kitchen tantrum/Mexican standoff involving a popsicle stick and a ham and cheese bagel. I’m just lucky to be alive right now let me tell you.

P.S. If you want to make this fun for me, comment below with your #magicmoments! 


1 Comment

Today Is A Day That Will Live In Infamy

“Today is a day that will live in infamy.” -FDR

On this* day in 1941, Japanese kamikaze planes filled the sky over the U.S. Navy base in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, dropping bombs all over the damn place and officially bringing the United States into World War II.

On this day in 2016, I might have been teaching on this very subject to a room full of rowdy, adorable, and you’re-really-testing-my-damn-patience 16-year-olds.

My memory alludes me, so I can’t remember my pacing guide exactly (and honestly looking back at my lesson plans tends to bring back a tiny surge of PTSD…Post-Teacher Stress Disorder), but I’m pretty sure I’d be on WWII by now.

Today, as I sit in my laundry-ridden room in my coliving house in Brooklyn (aka NOT a commune) sipping on tea and spilling cereal on my lap, I’m planning out the day in my head:

Finish this blog post, go to the coffee shop for my interview for the coffee shop, stay at coffee shop and write out my set for tonight, quietly practice set to myself and try not to speak too loudly or draw attention to the fact that I look like I’m talking to myself, write a few hundred words of one of my incomplete manuscripts, maybe the novel but probably just another to-do list, go to comedy show, slay comedy show, hopefully book another show by the end of the night because I slayed, come home, post this blog*, fall asleep while swiping left on Tinder because I’m bored and tired and maybe there’s a guy cool enough for me out there but probably not.

Oh, well. I’m too busy being awesome anyway to make room for a boyfran. #iaintneednoman

The truth is, today really will live in infamy. Because today is the day I start calling myself an author.

Okay, okay, okay. Let’s back up a second.

An author? Capital A-U-T-H-O-R, Author? Wow, that word sounds weird when you spell it out and say it a bunch of times, try it: authorauthorauthorauthorauthor.

Yes, the secret’s out, everybody. It’s true. Mimi Hayes is an author now.

I know you’re like, “pfff whatever, you’ve only been writing for a few years and you get some book deal and now you’re an author?! AS IF.”

Actually, I know you’re not saying that because that’s a really rude trash-human thing to say.

Actually, you’re probably being really nice to me. Because you supported me this whole time and didn’t laugh me out of the coffee shop the first time I told you I was writing a book and trying to become an author.

But let’s back up again. I never had any intent or desire to become an author.

That’s actually the very LAST profession I ever considered. And like I said, I never considered it.

Up until today, I've done a variety of jobs: barista, camp counselor, nanny, teacher, college football team videographer and equipment manager, barista again, improv instructor, watering the neighbor’s plants when they were away, that one time I worked at a Bubble Tea place for 3 days.

And I really wasn’t any of these things. Not truly.

Teaching, well that’s kind of in my bloodstream. It’s like some family gene, we’re all teachers and we all put on our special teacher voices at parties when people can’t settle the fuck down. That doesn’t really count.

I’m talking about who I am.

On online dating profiles, to strangers on airplanes, and at the bottom of my email signature, I tell people who I am.

I am an author.

Getting a book published helped (validate me), but it did not make me an author.

I became an author the minute my best friend Shannon told me on a very sad walk around the block that I had a story inside of me that others might benefit to hear. I didn’t really believe it, but I went home that night anyway, opened a blank word document, and began typing:

“Writing this sentence took five minutes. Or is it 5 minutes? I’m not a writer, how am I supposed to know? I’m not entirely sure if you are supposed to single or double space after every sentence. Geaz, I hope I don’t have to go back and double space all this when I’m done. Google is my go-to source for grammar tips. Is anyone still reading this? It will get better…I promise? But in all seriousness, typing this paragraph is a Christmas miracle in more ways than one. In two ways, actually.”

Those were legitimately the very first words I wrote in my first memoir. It really did take me five minutes because my head was bleeding and my fingers typed slow AF. Isn’t that adorable? This is awful! So awful, you guys. I mean like cute, but like when a kid is practicing an instrument for the first time, like awwwww this is painful!

I even denied my own existence: “I’m not a writer…”

My, my, my, how the tables have turned.

It’s almost like I was trying to talk myself OUT of being an author. Like I knew I was getting into something that had the capacity to change my whole life, I just wasn’t sure if I was really ready for it.

I wasn’t by the way.

I’m still not.

Somewhere in the first few months of writing this book my dear friend Kristen Jorden (hay gurl) told me she was writing a book too, and that she’d been looking for publication like since I was born, which made me extremely jealous of her but also love her as my friend and mentor even more.

We decided to play a game.

When someone got a rejection letter from a publisher or an agent (or in person from a certain meanie pants author who shall remain nameless *COUGH COUGH RHYMES WITH SHBLEEVE SHMALMOND*), we’d owe that person one dollar in a piggy bank. Once one of us got published, the other would buy us dinner using the rejection piggy bank. 

K-Dawg was definitely in the lead, sending out her work with confidence and getting rejections back like it was no big deal. I think I owe her about a thousand dollars right now. That's like five really nice steak dinners (here we are above at my publication dinner, which was fancy french fondue

This agent said they didn’t like the beginning, this publisher only takes science fiction it turns out, this one…” it went on and on. She was (and is) a rock star.

And I was pretty lame.

Now don’t worry, I’m about to get less lame in a second here. But I was pretty lame back then.

“Back then” when I was trashing myself on a blank word document and simultaneously allowing 16-year-olds to make me cry in the teacher’s lounge after school. I was a teacher. Authoring was just something I did at random increments of stolen creativity and time spent sitting with Kristen in coffee shops wondering if I could muster enough energy to write a lesson plan much less a book that people would buy if they saw it on a shelf.  

People always used to tell me that being a teacher was a noble profession. But people used to also talk to me like I had cancer.

"Wow, the bravery."

"Oh, I could never be a teacher."

"Bless your heart."

"I had no idea, oh, I am so sorry."

"Let me pour you some more wine."

Noble? Fuck that, I don’t want to be noble. You know who’s noble? Spartan war generals. And I’m pretty sure they’re like all dead right now.

Don’t get me wrong, I really loved teaching.

And more importantly, I love my kids. Notice how that’s not past tense. I can still love them even if I’m not locked in a windowless classroom with them anymore. I can still impact their lives as an author, probably even more so.

Hey there past students of mine reading this, y’all want some required reading?! Don’t worry, this will be on the test. The YOU’RE AWESOME AT LIFE test.

What you call yourself is really important, whether you realize it or not.

It’s taken me several years to own up to being an author, an artist, and a comedian.

What do I do during the daytime, you ask? I take care of small children.

Not mine, obviously.

I push strollers and make popsicle stick crafts and try not to laugh every time the two-year-old calls animal crackers “animal fuckers.” It’s putting some money in my pocket for the time being, as do other small jobs I do like freelance write about how to winterize plumbing and being a house mom for the big house I live in that is not a commune.

But what am I?

I am an author.

I write words on pages not because I chose this life for myself, but because my damn brain won’t shut off until I do. I write about what I know and what I think I know and then I come to the conclusion that I know absolutely nothing.

When I tell people what I am now, they don’t treat me like I have cancer.

They actually treat me like I’m a fancy celebrity.

More guys want to go on dates with me now because they hear I have a book coming out and they “want a chance before I get big” (their words, not mine).

I don’t really know how to feel about this quasi-attention right now, other than it’s nicer than when people treat you like they can see the knives sticking out of your heart from all the dreams you’ve let die by being a high school teacher instead of the author you really are.

Being an author is not easy, people.

Like any profession or state of being, it comes with its ultimate highs and crashing lows. It’s a lot of years of bleeding on a page, asking yourself the hard questions, and restraining yourself from setting the whole book on fire when you get stuck or discouraged but likely both.

Writing a book is like running a marathon that you haven't trained for, that you may have not even wanted to do in the first place because your friends signed you up for it, and you're in a heavy spacesuit, and you can't even tell where the finish line is because it doesn't really exist and did I mention you have a spacesuit on like what the fuck is that about that's heavy as fuck like are you okay in there can you breathe, would you like some water-OH, SORRY. Your book has been rejected by an agent for the millionth time because you don't have enough Twitter followers so NO WATER FOR YOU, SPACEPERSON.

Writing a book that is a memoir is like pointing a high-definition mirror at yourself and being like, "oh shit, is that really me in there? Oh, God, that's DISGUSTING. Nope. I'm not doing this. Don't like this mirror, put it away. I can't put it away because this is my life? Break the mirror. BREAK THIS FUCKING MIRROR THIS WAS A HORRIBLE IDEA WHO EVEN AM I ANYMORE." 

Don’t even get me started on how much money and time I’ve poured into this whole being an author business. Not to mention the gallons of coffee I’ve consumed in the process.

But alas, I have no choice. This is who I am now.

I am an author. And I fucking love it.

*Editor's note: This post was originally drafted on December 7th, for all you History nerds that think I messed up the date of Pearl Harbor. Nah, I just got home at 3 a.m. last night from my comedy show and didn't post this until today. 

1 Comment


What It's Like To Be a Comedian The Year After Trump Gets Elected

I’m not a teacher (anymore).

I’m a comedian.

I joke about awkward Tinder dates and farting in yoga class.

I joke about the fact that I look like a 12-year old and have to constantly convince 30-year old men on dates that they’re not pedophiles.

I joke I like my Kombucha like I like my cocaine, overpriced and I use it to make me skinny.

I joke about drugs even though I don’t do them and sometimes have to awkwardly explain to weird old guys at the bar that I can’t help them “acquire an 8-ball of cocaine.”

I joke about asking friends to avenge my death in the event that my skin gets made into a lampshade on my next blind date.

I joke in dive bars, prestigious clubs, basements, windowless classrooms, and my kitchen.

I joke on the subway in my little notebook, constantly trying to scribble down a new concept that could be funny but probably isn’t.

I joke late at night, which makes my mother nervous.

I joke to crowds of strangers, friends, drunk people, and sometimes drunk strangers that have recently become my friends.

I joke on my hands with setlists inked on my palms like badges of smudgy honor.

I joke even when my palms get sweaty and my entire set list is ruined. 

I joke I have a brain injury and I am still really bitter about not getting a handicapped parking spot.

I joke in my sleep and in the shower which is annoying because I can never remember any of the jokes produced in these two locations.

I joke I saw this weird guy today, let’s make fun of him.

I joke I’m actually the weird guy, let’s make fun of me.

I joke about my inability to get someone to date me for longer than two months.

I joke about ex-students, ex-boyfriends, and that one time I thought the Office Depot guy was hitting on me but he was really just checking to see if I was in the “Rewards Program.”

I joke even when everyone at the bar is yelling, someone forgot to shut off the music in the back, And there’s a band setting up for their show on the stage during my set and they absolutely can’t wait three more minutes to test that drum kit.

I joke to people that paid to be in the audience.

I joke to people that I paid to be in the audience.

I joke Wait, I have to pay to get an audience?

I joke sober and I joke 1-2 beers in.

I joke about funny shit kids used to do in my classroom like try to barrel-roll out of my classroom to escape to the bathroom, stealing my phone, and showing up high every day to 1st period.

I joke about how silly it would be if men had to have periods, like a traumatic scene out of Saving Private Ryan.

I joke about how bullshit salads are and people should really quit judging me for my salad topping choices, who are you, my DAD?

I joke even when men explain comedy to me despite my combined six years of improv, sketch, and standup experience, personal study, reading, workshops, and training at comedy theaters.

I joke while struggling to figure out who I am and if I like the person I look at in the mirror every day.

I joke to the sound of hardy laughter, confused laughter, and often times an exotic form of “silent laughter.”

I joke about a lot of movie references, specifically romantic comedies, which I’ve been told is only funny if you’re a white women between the ages of 18-32.

I joke word-play and puns.

I joke about my medical history.

I joke about my anxiety and depression.

I joke in several medium-sized notebooks, which I misplace on bar stools and in bathrooms every night.

I joke while looking up to comedians that are funnier than me, practice more than I do, and are crushing because of it.

I joke even when I’m discouraged, disheartened, and in general need of therapy.

I joke as therapy.

I joke Oh, you’re gonna’ try and heckle me during my set, good sir? Go ahead and try. Oh, shit. Now I’ve done it. Please, sir, shut up. No really. Shut the fuck up.

I joke despite breaking the microphone 97% of the time I use it.

I joke in a black fedora that people now don’t recognize me without.

I joke in sneakers because ain't nobody got time for that shit.

I joke in the presence of the most talented comedians in the country.

I joke backstage trying to decide if I have time to nervous poop right before my set.

I joke after long days of work and emotional turmoil.

I joke even when I am the last to sign up for an open mic and don’t make it up on stage and spent the past three days preparing but stay anyway to support my fellow comedians. 

I joke to supportive audiences, my mother, and mostly a room full of other comedians who have all heard my jokes before and don’t look up from their phones.

I joke Have we covered dick jokes? after an entire hour of dick jokes at a mic.

I joke with comedians that started when I did, have busted their asses, and are on their way up.

I joke about the creepiest Groupon massage I ever had, performed by an 86-year old Trump-supporting Bavarian man with the sniffles.

I joke in 3 to 10-minute increments.

I joke about all of these things and more.

But what I don’t joke about is how to be funny.

Not how to write a good punch line or how to use the microphone.

But how to be funny when nothing has been funny since Donald Trump got elected.

I don’t joke Fuck, are we all going to get blown up in a nuclear war?

I don’t joke I better stock up on birth control pills before the President takes them away from me for good.

I don’t joke hate and bigotry and fear.

I joke Listen to me my fellow comedians, I love you more than you will ever know and I will fight for your right to tell jokes on this stage until my last dying breath.

I joke even in years like this one when it feels like every atom in my body is screaming.

I joke for you and I joke for me.

Because America has been the least funny place in the entire world this year and we owe it to ourselves to keep laughing.