WHATEVER

by Helene I don't give a shit about much today Gresser

I am in a weird mood, sort of sad, sort of depressed, sort of apathetic; in other words, a perfect soil of manure and self-loathing in which to grow comedy. I think most comedians go through this on a daily basis, and most don't want to admit that misery feeds the comedy. I freely admit this. When I am feeling giddy and delighted and filled with love for all of mankind and embraced with love romantically I am the least funny comic in the world. All I want to do is loll about in my warm puddle of happy and have no bitter revelations to share with the masses. But give me a disappointment or five, a tax audit, looming eviction from my shitty apartment, and an inability to relax and enjoy myself on what is supposed to be a "vacation" away from Poo York City, and you have comedy magic just a-waiting to happen.

I think I have completely sabotaged my pathetic so-called love life, numerous day jobs, and some decent friendships in order to remain miserable and cynical enough to get up on stage and release my splenetic vapors. In fact, it is 15 minutes from the time I am supposed to be picked up for a delicious lobster dinner at the idyllic ocean side town in which I am "vacationing" and I am still in half-groggy, moody, disheveled tardy-mode, so I will inevitably be super-late and hold up the entire group from their appointed reservation. I suppose I should get dressed and throw on my painted smile and get my ass going. But the Adderall has yet to kick in, the half-Xanax is not calming me, and so I sit here, hours late with my blentry, in bathing suit (untouched by ocean waters or sun, because I just napped for the afternoon instead of enjoying the beach) and gross hair mess and I type my feelings into this borrowed laptop. Stupid me. Stupid stupid me. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, yes, now I will be ready to grab a microphone and let 'er rip. Bring on the clowns, goddamn it. The fucking clowns. How I love their creepy, over-sized mouths and eyes and fake joy. Come hang with me, and make me bilious and cutting and full of your pain.

But whatever you do, don't make me try to feel better, or give me a hug, you clowns. Instead, I will seek my soul mates in the crowd, those who sit and wait to hear their darkest thoughts through the magic microphone in my hand, and my companion, my lover, the stage lit up just for my hate-rant of pain. We laugh at people's foibles, at those who trip and fall, at the idiocy we accidentally reveal daily --- how funny is a couple skipping through the park with a picnic basket and love seeping from them like body odor does on a taxi driver? Not so damn funny. But me, I am a walking riot today.