How I Became a Podcaster on Accident

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...)

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

Yep. I started a podcast.

Whoopsie-doodle!

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.

~LOL~

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?!

~SPOILER ALERT: I’M ALREADY WRITING LIKE FIVE~

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,

Mimi

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

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. 

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*

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.

Me: “WHY ARE YOU GOING! I HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY!”

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!"

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...

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???

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 

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! 

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? 

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...

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.

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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!

BECAUSE I’M GETTING MARRIED (TO MYSELF) AND HAVING A (BOOK) BABY!

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. 

*clink*

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 

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.

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.

Why?

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?

Wrong.

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.