stewed about my job, then jerked off
Monday, March 11, 1996
5:45pm, NY Comedy Club
Pardon me while I spit in your minimum. Is everybody drinking their minimum? There is a minimum drunk you have to be to think this is funny. Honey, you’re plowed; you can stop. This is tomorrow morning, talking to you tonight. Stop now.
Seriously though, why can’t I be a drag queen? When I do my Patsy Kline routine, everybody leaves the room. I could clear this whole place with my Merman.
Why are people such assholes? I’m not talking about you guys here right now. I’m talking about you guys an hour from now, when you’re in a cab on your way back to fucking Bay Ridge or wherever the hell you crawled out of.
There’s not so many of us tonight. We’re a small but stupid crowd.
Saturday, March 16, 1996
11am, home
Dear Ava,
I was going to take a shit in Bloomingdales today and I saw that expensive makeup that makes me think of you.
Dear Ava,
It’s been a while since the last time we spoke. I hope things have calmed down for you somewhat since then. Things with me are hectic but/and good. We’d said something about talking about what had happened in our friendship. You said you’d like that, I know I would. Phone and address is still the same. Hope you’ll reply when you feel like it.
I probably should’ve started writing this at 7:00am when I woke up and was unable to get back to sleep. First I stewed about my job, then jerked off thinking about Ian; also smoked pot. Took 1½ hours to fall asleep again.
Judith is going to be away next week. I wonder if I should call my dad and try to resolve things a little further. He refuses to acknowledge exactly how much of an asshole he consistently was.
I guess I was picturing life as: I had a column in Paper, or a job at The New Yorker, an apartment in Tribeca, a realer relationship; sad and angry still and still. At least I’m writing, okay? At least I’m not giving up.
Gig tonight, and I’m going to that open mike on Monday damn it, and if I can have any fun at all, I’ll do it again. Still don’t get how/why I should do it. But I’ll try it again Monday. I could write a bunch more material; try to get that audition at the Comic Strip.
What if I just spend more time at work reading and writing? I could go on strike. I don’t have to quit in a huff. I can use this opportunity to make a good career move. Tomorrow I have to stay home and write, edit, read. It was tempting to stay home today, not go to Anne’s gig at Biblios.
Would like to have a better relationship with Anne. I would like my hand to stop hurting, a fatter barreled pen, less neck/back pain, more support from more people, better working conditions. I’m getting attached to the idea of leaving the Press. Funny to look back at that sentence. So many things will happen this year. So much good and even the hard stuff will be okay.
I never think about killing myself anymore; I don’t miss it. So much has changed. Why do I constantly write that? Why constantly question it?
I need to commit to something to work on. If worse came to worse, I could get an interview at Time Out, but that would almost suck as bad. Then I’d still be dealing with the same bullshit. I just don’t feel like writing. I’m demoralized and hungry.
Wait. I’m scared. I don’t know if my work is any good or if I have anything to say. Yes, my work is good and I have plenty to say. My work is good and I have plenty to say. I am not fucked up, I am doing great.
It’s Raj’s birthday Monday. Saw Ava’s piece in Might, that magazine I liked, and it was good. It threw me. Her poetry has gotten a lot better. Okay, so she’s not unredeemed as a person. She is very weird; put me into a very weird relationship. I did care about her a great deal. Obviously, had my own baggage/problems.
I don’t need to go over this all with myself, it’s just self-punishment. I feel like I’ve had a long plateau. Nobody was interested in each other’s poetry at Fat Rabbit. Maybe I’ll move to San Francisco, be a Bay Area comedienne.
When people tell me I have talent, I think they want to get something out of me. I’m suspicious that I’m a fraud, a bourgeois dilettante with no talent, none, and nothing important or original to say.
I just can’t believe that my life has sucked so incredibly badly up to this point that I can salvage almost nothing from it now. It all seems like a horrible waste of time and worse.
It is my true nature to be a creative writer. My creativity is appreciated, I am talented, people like what I do, they enjoy seeing me perform. I love my own writing. I love myself, I do. I care about myself more than anything. I am doing great for myself. I will continue to do even better. Every day I choose to improve my life. Every day I have more ideas and get more focus.