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My Last Blog of The Decade

January 1, 2020

I remember being a teenager and being the angstiest teen to ever angst. It was always the same on New Year’s Eve in my family.

Cheeseboards. Shrimp cocktail. And those tiny little hot dogs if we were lucky.

We watched a movie or two and then flipped on the telly to see mentally unstable people in New York City jump around behind Ryan Seacrest like they were actually having fun.

But who was I to say?

There I was like a loser, not even old enough to drink yet, just wishing I could rock a cute skirt and kiss a stranger at midnight.

I wanted so badly to join those idiots. Then I’d really be living.

Well, here we are, friends.

It’s the last few hours of the DECADE and I’m in my apartment in Brooklyn, In New Fucking York, warming up some of those little weenies and killing some time before my friend comes over to eat them with me.

My, how the tables turneth.

But this time, I don’t feel like such a loser.

Because you see, I’ve grown a lot this decade. Arguably the most in the nearly three decades I have graced this planet. This one was different. Why? Well, to find out we have to go into a time machine. Or, if you’re on your way to some ritzy bajillionaire’s yacht to kick off your decade then at least close your eyes in the Uber and pretend or something.

~cue whooshing noise and nostalgic music~

2010

The year is 2010 and I’ve graduated from Grandview High School.

I’ve had a boyfriend all senior year and I straighten my hair almost every day. In a surprise move, I decide to go to college in the middle of nowhere, Minnesota to go play ice hockey, a dream I’ve had since I was a kid.

Also, I am still a child.

I move away and surround myself with friendly Minnesotans but ultimately by Spring Break I am trying desperately to keep my long-distance relationship with the boyfriend alive. I finish my Freshman year and return to Colorado to be with him.

I’m sure other things happened but my memory sucks so let’s just keep rolling.

2011

I leave my friends at St. Ben’s, devastated but ready to start a new chapter.

Things with the boyfriend seem to be healing nicely after a year apart and I get accepted to the University of Colorado Boulder to continue my degree in History.

I join an improv team called Umbrella Improv Initiative. We are the first generation of improvisers and we call our team Slumber Party Knife Fight. I love discovering improv and that I’m not the only weirdo who wants to get on a stage and make up random shit.

Improv becomes my family.

Also, I get bangs.

2012

I go back and surprise my friends in Minnesota during Spring Break. This would begin my long saga of disrupting their lives with my unplanned presence.

I chop my hair off.

My boyfriend and I visit Paris, France.

I honestly don’t remember much about this year. Let’s keep going.

2013

I spend my 21st birthday in Minnesota because I just can’t stay away from those goofy Minnesotans.

I weasel my way into another improv troupe. This one’s called Amelia’s AirHearts and is all women. I’m so excited to share the stage with these ladies that are now my best friends. We take our team to a college improv festival in LA and my boyfriend tags along.

By this point, I have a promise ring and we’ve also been to Italy.

I get my first tattoo.

In the summer I work at a camp for rich kids at a country club.

I live with three beautiful and amazing women, one of which from my improv troupe and most of them teachers-to-be like me.

Could we be any cuter? (The answer is NO.)

2014

Oh, baby buckle the fuck up cuz shit’s about to get real interesting.

My boyfriend and I are about to celebrate 5 years together and I’m thinking of marriage. He’s acting kind of weird lately so I suspect he’s going to propose any day now. But the truth is we’re fighting a lot and he’s acting strange. I refuse to let myself believe that we’re not right for each other after all this time.

I “graduate” college and walk across the stage to my cheering friends and family. I am anxious because I still technically have to take one more science class in May to really get the job done.

I take my seasonal job back at the summer camp, this time as a Program Director.

One week after graduation my boyfriend dumps me and immediately gets with another girl and published the whole ordeal on Facebook and Instagram. I am wrecked.

I lose 20 pounds, run five miles a day, and somehow make it to my nutrition class and my job that summer. I turn in my final assignment five minutes late and the professor almost flunks me. By the grace of somebody’s god, I graduate college.

I discover Tinder and begin going on dates with sketchy dudes because I don’t know who I am as a single person.

In the summer I visit my friend Lexi in Germany. This is the first trip I haven’t taken with my ex-boyfriend. It hurts but we see so many amazing things. We go to the Anne Frank house completely hungover after spending the day drunk and high in Amsterdam. It’s fucking awesome and I’m still young so my body bounces back within a day.

In the fall I get ready for my student teaching semester at East High School in Denver. I put together lesson plans and buy cute teacher outfits.

East High School, approximately two months before my head exploded.

After five days as a teacher, my brain explodes on a blind date. I have a bad headache which eventually is diagnosed as a brain hemorrhage after my poor mother threatens to sue every single person in a hospital with a fake attorney.

The rest of this year is spent losing motor functions, watching a lot of Netflix, and continuing to hate my now ex-boyfriend who doesn’t seem to have noticed that I’m on my death bed.

Here I am in all my post-brain surgery glory!

In October I have brain surgery and spend several weeks in a brain hospital with old people relearning how to walk and see again.

My ex finally texts me.

I tell him to fuck off.

I start writing my book and prepare to get back into teaching again.

2015

After a small hiccup getting a little too “lit” on New Year’s (alcohol now impacts me differently post-brain), I make my triumphant return to East High School for my student teaching semester.

My head doesn’t explode after the first week (thank god), but I am learning quickly that teaching is much harder after having a brain bleed.

I hustle very hard and get a job lined up for the following fall at Gateway High School. I’ve moved back in with Mom and Dad since after college and they are the most supportive humans I’ve ever met.

I get my second tattoo.

Also, I start doing stand up comedy. I joke about my brain exploding and absolutely nobody thinks it’s funny but I keep doing it anyway.

I go back to LA for the college improv festival even though I’ve graduated. I perform again with Amelia’s AirHeart’s and have a great time but start to notice that I don’t feel like I fit in with the drunk college kids anymore.

I go back and surprise Sami in Minnesota on her birthday for kicks and hide under a box in a hotel room and pop out at her.

Before my big girl job starts I spend a week in New York City to take an improv class at the Upright Citizen’s Brigade. I’m overwhelmed and in love with comedy but tell my mom “I could never live there” when I get home.

In the fall I run my first half marathon and cry the entire time because not too long ago I was in a wheelchair.

I start teaching and work upwards of 80 hours a week.

I go back to Minnesota for Sami’s wedding.

My book becomes merely a list of bullet points and I can barely make it to one open mic a week.

My older sibling comes out as transgender which takes us all by surprise but we are supportive and love her as she begins her new journey.

I move out of my parent’s house and into a shady studio apartment in Capital Hill in Denver. I suspect my neighbor is on heavy-duty drugs and he keeps me up at all hours of the night screaming and one time I even call the cops on him because he tries to break my door down after I leave a sticky note asking him to keep it down.

Most of my friends are engaged by now.

2016

My best friend Kristen and I get a crazy idea and have a gigantic art show in Denver just because.

I finish my first year of teaching, in a blur, and continue trying to fill the hole in my heart that is still gaping wide open even two years after my bad breakup.

I am joyous to start dating a lovely man, we’ll call him Ben, who reignites my belief in love again and treats me like a queen.

We have an amazing summer together and I start writing again while on break from school. I get back into comedy and am starting to get into the big club Comedy Works.

Trump gets elected and the next day at school I have to tell a bunch of 14-year-old’s why our country is going to be completely fucked.

I run another half marathon.

I have a bipolar roommate now and in the course of this year, we go from friends to enemies.

Ben comes out to me as transgender, like my sister, and I’m even more shocked. We try to stay together for another month but things are weighing on us both. We break up after saying “I love you” for the first time. It is horrendous and painful.

The next day I am a bridesmaid in a wedding.

I go to therapy for a few months.

School starts again and I am quickly feeling like a shell of a person since the breakup and with the daily trauma of being a high school teacher. By September, I decide I’m going to finish the school year and move to New York City.

2017

I go to Spain with Kristen and dream of the life I want to live and also walk into a plate glass door.

Kristen and I have our follow-up ROUGH art show and I know in my heart that I am meant for so many big things.

I get my third (and favorite) tattoo.

I run yet another half marathon.

I move to New York City in the summer with nothing but two bags and a manuscript of my book that I printed at FED EX kinkos.

I don’t have a job and I live with my cousin for 10 days before moving to a “co-living” house in Brooklyn. I live there with 10 dudes until some other gals move in. I date one of the dudes in secret and run the house as a house manager and live there for free.

I am unemployed for what feels like ever and watch my 401K slowly dwindle away.

While I am away, my ex-partner and my sister become best friends. I struggle at times with this, but I am ultimately very happy to see that they’ve both found each other and are building their tribe together.

My dad gets tongue cancer randomly but they take it all out and he’s all good.

I take an improv class at Reckless theater which lasts all of two months before the theater closes because of a scandal. I make friends there though and one of them knows a publisher.

My secret boyfriend and I split because his visa expires and he moves back to India. After we break up at JFK a really nice COLOMBIAN taxi driver helps me stop crying and then takes me out for pizza.

One month later I get an email. My book is getting published.

I take a job as a nanny to three little boys in Brooklyn. The family is pretty wealthy and I don’t mind all the fancy cheese in their fridge.

I sign my book contract and get an advance of $750 which I use to pay rent with.

I start doing sets at Broadway Comedy Club, Stand Up NY, and more.

2018

I move out of the commune with two of my favorite women, Joy, and Simone. We move to Flatbush, Brooklyn which is absolutely the farthest place from everything.

I fly to Colorado for a TED Talk audition. I don’t get it.

I get bangs (again).

I work at a Matcha tea place for a few months then get fired for being on my computer when nobody is around.

I take fancy author photos and prep my book for edits.

I spend the entire year planning my book launch party.

I potty train a 3-year-old.

I start a podcast.

I get on TV three times.

I do a keynote at a fancy brain conference.

I take all my books from the bottom shelf at Barnes and Noble’s and put them on the Best Seller table while nobody is looking.

I become a Vegan.

I make a lot of new friends and “Brain Buddies” who are just as crazy and wonderful as me.

Mimi and The Brain is a finalist for the Werk It Women’s Podcasting Festival.

My sister has her big operation.

I get laid off from my nanny job unexpectedly at Christmas time.

I immediately take a job as an assistant for a science rapper.

2019

I hustle with multiple jobs.

I learn how to run lights and sound for an off-Broadway show.

I nanny some more.

I get punched on the subway and meet josh groban in the same hour window.

I apply for another TED Talk and I am the last one cut.

I battle depression, anxiety, and don’t have health care.

Why do I keep running all these fucking half marathons?

I get my fourth tattoo after getting my tongue biopsied.

I take a one-woman show and a giant foam brain costume to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, fall off my stage, and almost catch the speakers on fire, but I have a lovely time and come out of it alive.

I take a five-day road trip with a stranger from a Facebook group up Scotland which is hands-down the coolest thing ever.

I find out my tongue doesn’t have cancer. HOORAY!

I solo travel in Ireland, London, Paris, and MARSEILLES, eat the most amazing food, and fall in love with several street musicians along the way.

Our family doggo Tucker passes away suddenly.

I get home from Fringe and my mom immediately tells me she has breast cancer.

I fall off the Vegan wagon.

I eat a lot of Ramen.

I pitch an audio story in front of 300 people and a panel of producers.

I meet Bill Nye, Emilia Clarke, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, Jim Gaffigan, and briefly touch Neil Patrick Harris.

I write a TV pilot.

I get a full-time job right as I nearly run entirely out of money.

I apply for another TED Talk…third time’s a charm???

I play with my parent’s cute puppies Stanley and Dug.

And most importantly, I close out this decade truly, and fully in love with myself for the first time ever. Here, in my room, hiding away from all the flashy skirts and champagne towers, I am so in awe of the woman I have become this decade. Just me. In my sweats and cozy Christmas socks munching on my lil’ hot dogs.

I have come so far. I have learned, loved, and lost. I have suffered and rejoiced and done a lot of weird shit with my hair but hey, at least I am finally me.

I am the me’est me to ever me.

As I enter this new decade I know that the passing of time will continue to accelerate and hit warp speed. I will continue to change and grow. I will lose loved ones and experience new and profound traumas.

But I will never take for granted how powerful life can be and that we only get one to live (that we know of).

OK, now open your eyes. I’m sure you’ve arrived at your party by now.

Go on, cut a rug, hook up with a random hot stranger, jump up and down behind Seacrest why don’t you. Just watch out for that killer New Year’s hangover.

I’ll see you in 2020!

Love, Memes

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What I Learned Traveling the World in a Giant Brain Costume

September 10, 2019

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.

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.

Ugh.

I don’t want to talk about it, OK.

No really. I said I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT GET OFF MY DICK.

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.

Cheers.

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.

MmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmIHaveEatenSoMuchFuckingFoodandWineAndBeerOhGodLotsOfBeerAndIRegretNothingggggggg.

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.

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

February 9, 2019

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 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

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

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!

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.

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30 Things You Should Do Instead of Building an IKEA Storage Bed (Brain Injury Awareness Edition)

March 28, 2018

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)

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:

Order a simple boxspring from Amazon or even some cool bed raisers and slide your luggage, shoes, and various shit underneath the bed.
Pay IKEA $75 to assemble your furniture.
Pay some rando on Craigslist $15 to assemble your furniture.
Never go to Pinterest, IKEA.com, or any crafting website to avoid exposure to unrealistic projects.
Leave your bed on the floor as a statement of how cool and bohemian you are.
Read a nice book instead.
Consult your friends and loved ones if you get the urge to build your own bed lasting longer than 4 hours.
Call up that nice therapist you had that one time, I’m sure she’s into helping you out with this whole thing.
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.
Go hang out at the Dog Park and make some new friends.
Start a nice blog for your mom and cousins in Alabama to read.
Research if you actually have cousins in Alabama.
Make your blog about finding your long-lost cousins in Alabama.
Book a trip to Alabama and enjoy the local culture while you search for your cousins.
Check your bank account on your mobile. Did you know you can do that now?
Reflect on all the outrageous purchases you made on your vacation in Alabama.
Enroll in a 401K, get an IUD, or join the KGB.
Watch a good Bruce Willis film.
Watch any Bruce Willis film.
Listen to Taylor Swift’s newest album.
Pick a fun recipe that only uses 3 ingredients.
Research new healthcare plans to enroll in once yours expires in a few days.
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.
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."
Get on a bus and get off at a random stop.
Make an online dating profile.
Delete your online dating profile.
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.
Take a class on Finance.
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!

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What It's Like To Be a Comedian The Year After Trump Gets Elected

November 7, 2017

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.

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