you might not want to look
I’m going to Aspen.
Don’t get so excited, they didn’t call and invite us to perform. I’m going as an observer. I’m going to watch– to tap into the seedy underbelly of comedy and absorb as much cutting edge as I can without slicing my eyeballs in funny. I’m going in a van from Austin to Aspen. And if you didn’t know, folks, that’s a heck of a drive.
I’ve never been to Aspen. I haven’t seen snow in… gosh… real snow, uh, I guess it was sometime when I was living in Virginia… so when I was seven. That makes it sixteen years since I’ve seen real snow up close and under my feet. I have all these romantic thoughts tied to snow. The way it sticks in your hair if it’s dark and curly, like when Julianna Margulies is waiting for Dr. Ross’ ambulance to show up at the back door… and snow reminds me of the sound of children laughing and throwing things… it reminds me of hot chocolate and rosy cheeks and laughing that good laugh where your lungs get a little cold…
But when I think way back… way, way back to when I lived in Michigan… I remember snow being something that would soak through my shoes and socks and make my toes burn. Snow was freakin’ painful to get in your ear. Sometimes I’d get stuck in snow trying to walk to my bus stop. Dirty snow was very smelly– like gas and dirt. Some asshole is always throwing a ball of snow down the back of your coat and you have to take off nine layers to get it out of your underwear elastic. You slip on the sidewalk and pull your groin. Sometimes your ears crystallize, and they fall off, and if you don’t catch them in time they shatter, and then Julianna Margulies is all pissed off at you for not taking better care of your ears and she just shoves them back on without giving you a lollipop.
It is at this point that I realize that it will just be good to get out of Texas for a couple of days. Just get out of my job and the shows and go see someone else do it for a couple of days. Sure, I’ll have to hold back the desire to jump up on that stage during a show, but it should be fun.
I just want to clear my head, get excited about comedy and then come back in and get our show polished for the festival. I think this is exactly what I need to get really pumped up again about what I do. It’s like going to a convention for your job. You see what other people are doing, and how they are making things. My plan is to come back energized and ready to work hard.
I wish that Squishy entries magically turned themselves into sketches.
I’m just a big complaining ball of complaints lately. I don’t know what’s up. I’m annoying myself. I feel like mentioning that I’m annoying myself but then I realize that I’m complaining about complaining and that really is annoying and then I’m back to the beginning of that annoying circle. I don’t know if it’s not smoking or if it is just because I’m really busy or if it is waiting for test results or the fact that the show is coming up or that I just don’t have much time to myself lately or that I can’t seem to keep the house clean or that even though I work all day I never get everything I want to get done done–
I just keep bitching about things. Sometimes I’m not bitching, but rather trying to be a cute cynical observer in a Seinfeldy sort of way, but it just comes out bitching. I think I’m losing the ability to make a wry joke. This could be very detrimental to my career.
So, I’m gonna go freeze some funny into me. And after a sixteen hour van ride, I’m sure lots of things are gonna seem funny that really aren’t. Either that or I’ll never laugh at those four friends again. Hell, the Monks made it on that drive to L.A., why wouldn’t we all make it to Aspen, right? There’s fewer of us and less of a drive. Granted, I wasn’t on that drive… but they all made it back alive.
It’ll be an adventure. I think that’s what I need.
Eric is bummed I’m going. “I’m going to miss you,” he said. “That’s five whole days. We’ve never been apart that long before.”
“You mean, you’ve never been left behind that long before,” I said.
“No, we never–”
“Because you go running off to Pittsburgh for weeks at a time and never think twice about how long I’m sitting here waiting for you to come back. It’s just different because I’m the one that’s going somewhere.”
“It’s my past, I can manipulate it however I want.”
But see there? Now it looks like I was complaining about how often Eric goes to Pittsburgh. I’m not complaining. Man! I hate it when I hate myself. I suck so hard for hating myself. Just when my waist was starting to look Tae Bo’ed.
i want a freakin’ cigarette, people! just one! i would be such a better person.
Last night Eric was like, “Would you just smoke! Jesus! If it will make you nice again.” Which is funny because I had just been wishing for someone to say that to give me an excuse. But you know what? It broke my heart. What if I’m only a neat person when I’m smoking? What if it is nicotine that makes me a cool chick? What if my nicotine free personality is this annoying neat freak obsessive compulsive bitch? Do you continue to smoke to make you a more likable human? I think maybe you do. I don’t know. I’m hanging in there now, but I sort of feel like my personality is changing.
Maybe if I just smoked in social situations, like parties, or when Eric and I are having our chats on the balcony. That’s a rough time. I really liked sitting in the near dark, drinking a beer, watching the burn from our two cigarettes as we talked about our past, and our future. It was so relaxing. Sometimes we’d just sit and be quiet for a while, just sitting together. Now while we sit out there and talk I end up thinking, “I’m just sitting here. I’m not doing anything. If we aren’t talking and I’m not doing anything, I feel kind of bored. Look how cool he looks with that cigarette. It smells great. I wish I had one.” And then I miss whatever it was he was saying.
I feel like half the friend I used to be. Now people have to ask me if they can smoke in my car or my house, or at the table, and I never wanted to be one of those people. I feel so annoying! I don’t want to change anyone’s lifestyle. But yes, I prefer they don’t smoke, because then my brain doesn’t fixate: look at all of the smokers. they are having so much more fun than you are. they get to inhale and exhale smoke and play with their lighters and share cigarettes and punctuate sentences with their cigarettes and here you are with a bottle of naya like some stupid silly girl. i wish you liked to drink. we don’t get to have any fun anymore. let’s get drunk.
I haven’t ever gotten as drunk as many times in my life as I have this month. And honestly, it’s because I’m jealous that everyone else is having such a great time. I feel like I’m missing out. But once I sip that wine or champagne, all I really want is a cigarette with it. It feels like my parties have no closure. My books have no closure. I would always smoke while I was reading the end of a book. I don’t go outside for breaks. I sit here at my desk all day because going outside for a break makes me want to smoke.
MAN! I AM SO ANNOYING!
whine, whine, whine. blah.
I’m glad it’s the weekend. I don’t want to sit in front of this computer anymore. I can’t take it. I sit in an office and keep quiet all day long and the highest point of the day is when my friend Ali comes in and asks if I’d like some of the stuff her mother sent her from Pier One and I’m like “OH MY GOD! HOW CUTE IS THAT MAGNET! I’M SO EXCITED TO SEE THINGS THAT PEOPLE BUY AT THE STORE! THANK YOU!”
And I go home and I’m exhausted. I guess it’s from forcibly keeping my ass in this chair all day long, because I’d really like to be running around the park right now, or out filming something, or working on something, or just playing with my cat. I’m gonna write a couple of sketches after I upload this because I feel my brain just melting away. I look outside and it’s so beautiful, but I’m afraid if I go out there I won’t come back to this desk. And I need the money, so what am I gonna do?
If I didn’t make the money, I couldn’t go to Aspen in a couple of weeks.
And that is the circle I live in. I have to work here to do what I love. I can’t do just what I love without money. I don’t make money doing what I love. So, I work. If only I got paid to write Squishy. Put it all in a book and sell it. Screw Dave Barry.
Whatever. This is free for a reason. It’s supposed to be my diary, right? My journal. This is my morning show. To be honest, sometimes it’s the one reason I come into work. So, thanks guys, for reading, and making me feel like I’m doing all of this for a reason.
OH, MAN! I’M SO ANNOYING! Just ignore everything I’m writing. Just forget it. Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me?
I wish I could just bleed and get it over with. This five days of pure bitch waiting for the slough is just fucking murder.
And yeah, when women are pissed off you can’t ask us if it’s PMS, but when we are pissed off and talking about it, there are only two reasons why we are pissed off:
So you better pray for blood, man. And back off.
I’M SORRY I’M SO ANNOYING. I’m just gonna go back to work now. I’m going to go write something funny.