It was the best of times, it was the...

Show thirty one brought me back to The Ritz, my Monday haunt, which I host and adore. I count it as stand up, even thought it is technically pretty far away from The Boys Club of stand up because though I am committed to thinking like, acting like, joking like a true stand up for 365 days, the truth of it is, I am always going to be a little bit squarely. Should I stumble into an HBO special now or ever, lord knows most of it will be bedazzled. Sure, it's no tight twenty minute set at The Chuckle Hut in Walla Walla, Washington, and I have semi-permanent damage in my knee from abusing my right to wear stripper heels, but this is also my life. One of my dearest friends in the universe (she has been my best friend for 20 years, which is a pretty cool thing to be able to say at 27, if you ask me) was over at my house knitting as I finished bedazzling a bra.

"I can't believe you figured out a way to make this your life," she said, as she finished a knit and transitioned to pearl.

"Honestly, I can't either. Yet here we are," I replied.

Yes, here we are. Dollar bills shoved down my pants and in my bra in a $600/mo apartment off a train that shuttles when it's feelin frisky, no idea what tomorrow will bring, no idea what tomorrow will bedazzle, meltdowns on Mondays, tantrums on Tuesdays, what the fuck am i doing with my life Wednesdays, and rent due on the first of every month, whether I like it or not. But I do have low income health insurance, which is nice. Someday I dream of making enou money on the books to be eligible for low income housing, but as it stands, I'm only 66% of the way there. Why they set the poverty line so high, I have no idea. What do they think this is, the 90's?

Diving down, down, far far away from midtown and "Don't Tell Mamas" came show thirty-two at Eastville, a nightly mic where some of the big boys will come to lob a joke or two. It is also in a windowless basement, so the odd 5:30 on a sunny Wednesday when you know the sun is out, but you're trapped in a room that appears to have a Deatheaters touch in it's ability to suck the soul out of young, hopeful comics--sometimes visibly, I swear--is enough to make even the most optimistic grape in the bunch feel more vinaiger than wine.

And yet, we soldier on. I shall admit, at this point I very badly want to quit. But I won't. At least I haven't yet. Honestly, I don't think I will. I'm too much of an asshole to be a quitter.