I woke up crying.
I know it’s cortisol, I know it’s PTSD, I know it’s my cycle, I know I’ve been through hard things, I know conditions have not been perfect for success or love and or even being understood. I can talk kindly to myself about why I’m waking up crying.
But also I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t see evidence to support the idea I have the capability to do much.
How’d I come out so wrong?
A lady from that awful trans job texted me. How come people always want to keep me around when I want to forget how I met them? How come people want to get closer once I don’t want to be around them?
If I can’t do much in the world, if I’m stupid, if I’m a fuckup on a deep level, then maybe I’m just off the hook. If I can’t do anything maybe I don’t have to do anything.
I went to an open mic last night and did some material about the sneak attack cuddler. It was nice. It was a small group of comics. Comics are strange because it’s a very specific context to know a person through. It’s a competitive context, but also everyone is so weird and clearly messed up sometimes it’s not competitive, sometimes it’s just a very non-goal oriented support group. The other comics came up with a term for cuddle rapist: crape-ist. Crepist? Hate a crepist, don’t want any crepists around.
I remember when I was sitting by the Bay and I really realized transition wouldn’t work for me, something that hit me hard was that comedy was over for me. And I felt like howling. Stupid comedy. Stupid thing that has hurt so much and twisted me up so much and turned me around so much and I can’t leave and I don’t know how to get through life without doing. Stupid, pointless shows you everyone’s worst side including your own comedy. Stupid takes all your time and money and never gives it back comedy. Stupid makes every other creative endeavor feel boring comedy. Stupid puts you on couches with crepists comedy.
Stupid me for needing it. Stupid me for leaving it. Stupid me for not being able to deal with the men in comedy. Stupid me to keep hanging out with them! Stupid me for wanting comedy even though I’m sensitive- sensitive people should not ever be in rooms full of comedians. Sensitive people should be in yurts in the countryside weaving or coloring or doing some repetitive calming work with no internet and no mic stands and no comedians.
Stupid me for thinking I was trans. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I want to be philosophical here but I woke up crying and I think being philosophical would be dishonest. I want to be funny but I often wake up crying so that’s also dishonest. I’m too smart for this but I am also unnervingly, shockingly stupid.
Is this love or is it a really sick addiction? Is it love or is it self-harm? Comedians are beloved but they are also the height of irrelevance. That’s something regular people don’t get, they think comedy is all George Carlin dropping truth bombs but actually George Carlin’s truth bombs are really lame when you think about what he actually knew about how the entertainment industrial complex worked in the world. Comedy is cultivating your belovedness, making yourself easy to love, cultivating your powers of attraction, and that’s maybe sick? Because it’s all about money and fanbase and it’s lies, it’s not real love, it’s not easy attraction, it’s something you created for strangers to consume.
I want to be a whole person. I want to get out of my own way. I want to make smart choices.
And now I’m going to go write a grad school paper , which was supposed to be turned in two nights ago, but instead I was freaking out about the crepist and going to open mic nights. This is a very specific, strange way to be sick.