Scumbags, Sweethearts

I did comedy with a bunch of scumbags in Arizona. Some were scumbags in the best of ways: dirty but kind little ragamuffins. They'd attend a cupcake party I threw, but they'd get super stoned first. Some were scumbags in the worst of ways. They'd drunkenly brag about how great their stand-up was, show up hungover for tournament shows, classically steal ideas. I hate these aspects of a thing I loved so dearly, but there's something rich about remembering it. A lawyer once told me all JDs leap at the chance to talk about how difficult passing the bar is.

Point: lots of scum, but also, a couple sweeties. One of these sweeties felt like my little brother. He was so genuine and had an adorable appreciation for almost all humans. Once at a party we were having a 1 AM intimate conversation. Not spilling all, but just sort of swapping little bits. He said, "You know what's kind of an interesting thing about me? I am kind of into bigger girls." I was like, "Oh. Okay." And then he said, "Yeah, not like huge, but like...like--" And then he named a girl on the sketch comedy team who had this amazing black curly hair and was hourglass curve with a tummy. My guess--a size 16.

I felt the sudden lurch of "I'd like to go home" but I couldn't put my finger on why. Now I know it's because he considered appreciating a normal body a fun-fact. Or maybe because he categorized women into bins of not big and big. Or maybe because all men/ all people do that but I don't like to be reminded. Or maybe because he named an object in the bin to me, like I was an accomplice. It was too late and the music was too loud to for me to do anything other than blink. He waited for a response. "Well?!" He shoved my shoulder, "Aren't you proud of me?"

I am lucky enough to mostly spend time with feminists. I work in liberal spaces, I write in liberal spaces. But even so, little prickles of dissent poke in, and I want to smack the world upside the head and explain how hard it is to be a woman, when it is a good man's medal of honor to not be disgusted by our average selves.

18 MONTHS IN THE WINDY JUNGLE THAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF

The hardest part of this whole artist lifestyle I'm trying to live is not the pay, is not the rejection, is not the constant creativity. For me, the hardest part is the scheduling. It's not just about finding opportunities, it's knowing that once you accept them, you've shut out three other things. It's realizing you can't take any random weekend trip you want. It's RSVPing "no" to weddings and seeming flakey when someone asks you a simple question like "Can we get dinner?" It's having your planner open for literal hours penciling in which dates the show should be vs. when rehearsals for that other thing will be vs. when should you reschedule that one appointment to keep yourself open for that potential audition...and all of that is minimum two months away in the first place. AND every person who is working with you on everything and every person who is your friend are all doing the exact same hair-pulling planner-scribbling stuff.

And yet, this is the dream. Maybe its the part of the dream no one told us about and we couldn't possibly have guessed, but this is it. I was stressed about this project I have coming up in February and pitifully slouched on the couch. Bisque said, "I dunno why you're not happier when you just got CONTRACTED TO WRITE YOUR OWN SHOW AT THE S______ C____." And I was like, "OH YEAH THE DREAM I FORGOT FOR A SECOND THAT I AM LIVING IT." Tomorrow I am going to wake up and think, "Ohmygosh. How incredibly wonderful I have so much to do today."