Comedy Thoughts: Beginnings

Its funny when I look back at my comedy beginnings. Every time I went onstage I was so hopeful, so proud. I was a lion tamer. A gladiator. A true individual chasing after his dreams. Yes... I was living my life.

Structuring stories and jokes, Hell, sentences and words, were a challenge. Everyday I thought about comedy I was happy. Yet, thinking about what to say got me a bit blue. I lacked in focus. Comedy material in my mind was a success; but that is my mind. How do you produce success? Semi-laughs? Bullshit. People need to laugh. Real laughs. Cry to death. Run out of breath. I need to kill people with words when I perform. Do you think people will really care about what I say? It has been roughly six months into my comedy career; four dollars made so far. Sufficed to say, this is my passion. I love comedy. Everything in my life to my very core points to comedy.

Only two issues block me. One, material. It takes work, just like grade school. I am terrible with school. But I can do it and I want to. For sure I have to kick the RnR. Drugs, girlfriends, video games, even my mother. Any distractions from my passion will hurt me. All in moderation of course. If those things really help me then they would have never come up in that last sentence.

I improvise my material. Like my life. Like most people do with thoughts to paper. Secondly, and oddly enough, my difficulty is personality. I never really developed mine in public. My behaviors are so personal and weird or so I thought. Everyone is weird. Getting myself to develop, live, in-front of others is a real challenge, but the more I perform the better I get at it. Same for my material. I still need to be more into the comedy world then I am and I can be. I just need to kick some old/new habits. If I want this life, I will make it.

Happy 9/11 or Like an object

I wait for a talk with my mother about respect...

I feel better knowing my mother doesn't love me. I think in fact, she treats me like an object. The very thing women have told me time and time again I do and men do. I am her son, something she desired and has told me (several times) on this fact. I guess she is done with me, a passive gift put on the shelf. I am an adult, I need to grow up if I haven't. Yet, I have never really felt the way my family has told me I should be (a man, positive, on my own, smarter, not single). I just feel the opposite of those things or confused; as if I have accomplished nothing. I am shit? I always lie and get picked on (less these days). Weaseling my way out of serious situations. Always getting into trouble and crying is my past-time. Look at me now, the big-smart-positive man people adore.
Right... now, I desire love from my family. More than I ever have. I am lonely. My family, where are they, who are they? One sister in a different state with our last conversation resulting in her hanging up on me. My younger sister in the city, but she keeps things so light, we forget we exist. My father, I love him and I can feel a connection, but he is so weird. He is a big conspiracy theorist and so unreal. At times, he is the greatest, but whenever I try to be serious, it all falls apart. Like coming off a drug. Now my mother. The one who does not love anyone but herself. Yet, does she really love herself? She never exercises. Her smoking and drinking is hidden and constant. She always asks what people think of her and avoids serious topics (always). She gets negative really fast and has no since of respect. I love her, because she is my mother, but I am saddened by the lack of connection and friendship we have. I used to hate women. Now I am very true to myself. I hate, hate. Nothing more. Women, men, they are just people, like me. Is that enough? Not enough, but I am always growing (always changing). My mother though... she is so, what the Hell is she anyways? The less I focus or think about her, the happier I am. Such a dark thing to say but she is a joke full of stress, confusion, and self-loathing. A true narcissist, why take the headache seriously? The only emotion she can squeeze out is one of isolation.
So, my mother doesn't love me. Another female showing me few sides, only herself, and mainly negativity. I constantly repeat this in my head "She does not love me." You cannot love what you hate. What you despise. What you do not understand. I am an object. A performer by day and a lonely heart at night. Sick, sick shit. With this thought I can face her and smile. If I interact with her in any other way, all I get is disappointment. As my sister's would say "why do you care what we think?" I guess I just do.

Temptations and Thoughts

 I come home Friday night. Alone. I am mean spirited, whatever that means, and tired as all Hell. I spent the past hour attempting to buy *Insert your imagination* legally (always felt that mattered), failing (they closed), then regretting it. Not to mention, trying to drive to an open mic to prove, to someone, I am working hard on my comedy career. But it just becomes a stupid yelling game in my car of "FUCK, FUCK IT!" Unlike rising comics, I am still not there yet. My time will come.

 Luckily, I go for a dip in my hot tub to relax. It is very soothing and I remember the night Eric, Lana and me star gazed. So I do the same (or as best you can in the suburbs) and then a red dot escapes my nose. I am bleeding profusely... a bloody stream has started unexpectedly. I rush inside and it is one of my worst and unexpected releases, but it goes down quickly. I settle for the night by sticking a plastic tube up my butt. Because I have hemorrhoids, at 24. I did before, and now they are back again. It is very uncomfortable and my lower body bubbles in any word that is the opposite of excitement. I try to watch a movie and pass out. My only entertainment for the week and I can barely focus. I awake this morning to finish it and end up crying near the end. Crying to an old movie I have seen before. Crying to the past. Crying to let go. Crying in an empty house to empty memories. Although, that sounds more poetic than it is. I have no real lost memories. My father didn't beat me and my mother didn't hate me. My family supported me as much as any modern-day-support of bears and tigers do. Shitty analogies are shit. My stomach is empty and my heart is full up on unfulfilled dreams and such temptations and thoughts for the misunderstandings and perceptions of this world. I have my anchor so I am more well adjusted these days (sun and moon). The sun guides me during the day and the moon protects at night. Always. As long as my heart beats. I will smile. I hate writing. Back to work.