Too Bad, So Sad

Here are two things that most people don’t know about me:

First, I can tap dance. Actually, I’m not that good at it, although, I can “Shuffle off to Buffalo” like a motherfucker.

Second, I suffer from depression. I know, me and half of the people on the planet, right? Boring. That’s why I don’t talk about it. Nobody cares. I don’t even care, which, I believe, is a symptom of depression.

I don’t know that for sure because I didn’t go to medical school. However, I did learn a thing or two during my year and a half of junior college, which I went to on a dance scholarship, hence the tap dancing.

At least I’m not one of those depressed people who are on medication. Good grief, those people with their meds and the side effects like the spinal overgrowth and the bloody discharge. Nice. That’s who you want at your party.

Here’s an idea: instead of screwing up your body with crazy chemicals, how about dealing with it the old-fashioned way, as I do? Try staying in bed for three days while you ponder killing yourself, knowing you can’t because God will get mad at you and it will make your mom cry.

So you lie there in the dark with the covers over your head, just you and your own stink (because you haven’t showered in seventy-two hours), hoping someone will break in and end it for you.

And then one day, you just wake up and feel normal again. The sun will be shining, the birds will be singing, and you’ll think, “Man, I could fuck up a cheeseburger right about now.”

And then…life goes on.

Please Pass The Porn

Most of my life I’ve been “one of the guys.” My choice. Because to be honest, it’s just more fun.

I remember being a kid playing at my cousin’s house; the girls were inside, the boys outside. Suddenly, I became very frustrated with the situation, and the voice inside my head started screaming. (Everyone hears voices in their head at seven years old, right?) It was screaming,”What’s wrong with you people? Why are we sitting in this room with these stupid dolls when we could be up in that tree, with them? Good grief, what a bunch of pussies!”

The voice didn’t really call them pussies, but seriously, how funny would it be if it had?

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not one of those women who don’t like other women. I have plenty of really cool girlfriends, but most of the time, you can find me hanging with my boys, gay or straight.

The downside to this is that I get stuck doing the dirty jobs that they would never have their girlfriends/wives/boyfriends/lovers/significant others do.

For example, I am the official “porn sweep” to four of my friends. That means if anything happens to them, I’m the person that has to go into their house first to clean out all of the porn so their family and loved ones don’t find it.

I guess they don’t want other people to know about their creepy, dark side after they’re dead. But apparently it’s perfectly okay if I do.

And…Sleep

I just spent the weekend in Palm Springs telling jokes and fighting bikers. Where should I begin?

First, let me say if you ever need a beautiful gay man or a very tan senior citizen, Palm Springs is the place. If there’s a more abundant supply elsewhere, then I’ve not found it.

My goal for the week was to record every show and then make a CD for both people who have asked if I have CD that they can buy. It’s so cute when I set a goal because “This time I’m really going to do it!”

Unfortunately, it wasn’t my crowd. It seemed as if they were waiting for me to get off stage so the MC could bring up Red Buttons.

And so I ended every show by saying, “Enjoy your headliner.”

Even though I was the headliner.

My favorite thing about the road is napping. Oh dear, do I love to nap. It’s the highlight of my day. I plan it while having my morning coffee, which is the other highlight.

The hotel they put us up in wasn’t the greatest, to say the least, but sometimes that can make napping even better. Because when you’re asleep, you don’t have to look at stuff and wonder where things went wrong.

So Saturday afternoon I was getting ready for my beloved nap.

Here’s how it works-

Air-conditioning set to 32 degrees below zero.

Phone turned off.

Blackout curtains were drawn so the room is pitch black, except for that one comforting stream of light coming through the bullet hole in the curtains.

And…sleep.

Then I usually wake up a few hours later, have more coffee and go to work.

Beautiful!

Not this time.

About fifteen minutes in, I heard the roar of motorcycles. Then I heard a woman who had smoked a lot of unfiltered Camels in her life say, “Go get some ice.”

Nap over.

The gang of hooligan bikers that had just checked in to the room next to mine stood in front of my window drinking beer. I think they were having a “Who has the best fake laugh” contest. (And for the record I would just like to say that I think they were all winners.)

Luckily, it only lasted about two and a half hours.

What happened next? Nothing. I just waited. At about three a.m., when I heard sweet, little, drunken snores through the paper-thin walls, I called their room. When they answered, I hung up. Then I waited for about twenty minutes so they could fall back asleep, and I called again.

And again.

And again.

Who’s the winner now? Huh, pussy bikers?

If I Should Die Before I Wake

I am a hypochondriac. Worry is my middle name. If I wake in the morning feeling happy and peaceful, I will immediately do my best to put a stop to it. Be it “new freckle” or “cramp in my thigh,” I love to jump to the worst-case scenario.

Last week I thought I was going blind in my left eye. Turns out, I should take my eye makeup off before going to bed.

This “I’m sure God is going to kill me at any moment” personality quirk can be traced back to age eleven, when, before going to sleep one night, I had a long, tearful goodbye with my dog. Just in case one of us didn’t wake up. We both survived the night, but things were never really the same between us after that.

Oh Silly Rabbit

If asked to describe my intellect, I’d have to say that it lies somewhere between a rocket scientist and Lennie from Of Mice and Men.

Believe me, nobody’s putting me in charge of sending a Cosmonaut to Mercury. But on the flip side, I do know to stop hugging the baby before he turns cornflower blue.

I don’t pretend to understand E=mc2, nor can I fathom how people with no job seem to always have beer and cigarette money.

And also a dog.

But I knows what I know.

For example, I’m aware you gotta pay your bills on time, and, more importantly, I’m pretty sure I understand what’s funny. Admittedly it’s usually not funny to everybody, but I do know what is hilarious to people of a like, fucked-up mind.

It’s for these folks that I write my silly stories and jokes. There’s no judgment. They just laugh because they get it. They understand that I wouldn’t really hug a baby to death.

Even if I wanted to.

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