comedy, Death, Depressed

Depression and Death’s Hilarity

I love Garfield minus Garfield. It’s one of my favorite websites. I recognize that it is a simple concept with sometimes very overdone jokes, but c’mon:

Watching a medium of comedy used for simply depressing ends is hilarious. It’s because expectations are thwarted and comedy is about surprise. I love surprises for the most part. I love surprise nights of misadventures, I love surprise parties.

I love all surprises except surprise death. That shit frightens me. My biggest fear is drive by shootings despite the fact that I have spent most of my life in rural Maine and St. Paul, Minnesota. Drive by shootings are frightening because despite their rarity, the awfulness of them is so awful that their expected value of awfuality is awful. It’s a multiplication thing, don’t worry about it. I am obviously very frightened of death because it means the end of life, but the idea that it ends with no reason is really the scary part. And in a drive by there might as well have been no reason because I will never know the identity of my killer and I will just die alone with no idea of why. And that makes me sad.

I want to cry in the third panel of my life.

Death, Depressed, Lazy

6:30 AM Death

I am writing this at 6:30am. It is not because I had some crazy all night party of funtimes and magicfarts – in fact I ditched the opportunity to party after someone else’s fantastic show in order to go to sleep and get up in time for work. Work that was supposed to start at 6:30am. Work that I didn’t have to go to until 12:00pm because I had switched shifts. So, now I’m back home with another five hours of day that I won’t be able to fall asleep during.

Why do I spend so much of the time I’m awake attempting to fall asleep? It’s such a waste. There is literally nothing less productive. It’s like you are saying, I’m going to attempt and fail to do nothing. Doing nothing is at least a thing. Doing nothing is relaxing, but trying to force yourself asleep is a complete waste of everything. And it never works. You just sit there waiting until your body doesn’t want to do awake anymore, and all the methods that don’t involve physically altering the chemicals in your body do nothing because anything else involves thinking, which is counter to sleeping. It’s like yelling yourself into a meditative state – it doesn’t make sense.

Life is so short, yet so much of it is spent doing things that are stupid and worthless. Life is stupid and worthless.

When I can’t get to sleep, it’s usually because I’m having intense (though intensely boring) conversations with myself. They are annoying conversations where one person is trying to be absurd and the other person is annoyed because none of the absurd jokes that the first person is making are funny and therefore not worth keeping me awake over and then a third person comes in and tells them both to quiet down because they are all trying to sleep right now. It’s a horrible conversation to listen to, but it’s what I use to try to and fail to put me to sleep. I always want to be awake because I need to do so much before I die and being asleep just puts you closer to death without accomplishment. My multiple personality disorder (aka: vivid imagination) is keeping me awake though because all of the people in my head want to stay awake as much as possible too. The probability of all of the voices in my head wanting to sleep at the same time is so absurdly minuscule that I could compare it to the size of my dick and people who hadn’t heard much comedy would laugh because they would understand that to be a self-deprecating joke that they were comfortable agreeing with because it had no basis on their actual judgement of the person’s worth as they would never have to see if the joke had an element of truth to it.

What do I do with that time awake anyway? Play video games and hulu.


Life is so short, yet so much of it I spend doing things that are stupid and worthless. I am stupid and worthless.

Attention Whoring, Depressed, Pathetic, Selfish

The Heat is Making Me Look Like I’m Cleaning Vagina

I only have one pair of shorts. The pair is also nearly the only non-undergarmet article of my clothing that wasn’t previously owned. It’s a pair of athletic shorts I bought during the week and a half that I wanted to play basketball with my friends because I had nothing better going on in my life. That was a bad summer. All summers suck. I hate the heat. I get dehydrated easily. This is the furthest south I’ve lived in the summer. This is the hottest summer of my life. Fuck New York. I’ve started drinking Gatorade all the time to try to maintain a decent level of electrolytes.

Fuck New York.

New York is making my look like a douche – Wearing athletic shorts and drinking large containers of Gatorade.

There was a douche in my nerdiest math class who wore the same outfit and drank the same thing while he didn’t take notes because he was “too smart for that.” I hated him. I was usually the kid who was too smart to take notes, but this class was fucking impossible. This was Number Theory with Bressoud. Known for being one of the hardest math classes at my school. There were only 7 guys in the class and I was the least nerdy by far. Not by far. By so far that I couldn’t even see the next least nerdy person if we were lined up on the nerd spectrum. I was suddenly the stupidest person in class. My weekly Risk games made me seem cool because I had three friends to play Risk with.

One of these kids way less cool than me and way smarter than me was Jacob. Jacob also liked weightlifting. He was a douche. He would chug 24 ounces of Gatorade every class period in the midst of answering questions I was struggling with. UGH.

I wasn’t jealous of him. He had a really depressing life. He had 4 facebook friends (the true sign of coolness), and I had only ever seen him hanging out with one person: his girlfriend – who was almost as depressing as him – and they broke up at some point, so his life must have sucked. I wasn’t jealous of him. I was confused about myself when I was around him.

Socially, I’ve never considered myself a success. I’ve never cared to be one, so that’s okay. I wear clothes I find comfortable, I am mean the first time I meet people, I don’t censor my masturbation talk. I’m not a social success. What do I have over this Jacob kid though? Not my intellect. Not my athletic abilities. But I’m definitely better. I know that. So I must be better then him somehow, and social prowess is my last avenue to blame. I don’t want to only have my social abilities to rely on to prove that I’m better than somebody. I don’t care about society. Fuck society… No. Fuck him for making me embrace society.

comedy, Depressed

Burn Victim: A Joke.!?;

The other day I burned my finger pulling a muffin out of the toaster. I only touched the muffin, but the muffin was so hot that it created a large blister of burning on my thumb. I’m not going to talk anymore about how I fingered a hot muffin because I have important other things to talk about. I thought this was the worst pain I could deal with because I am a large festering bag of unable to deal with pain.

Yesterday I went to Coney Island for the Mermaid Parade. That’s right – Mermaid Parade. I usually hate parades. This was awesome. I am now literally in the worst pain someone can be in though because I am also a festering bag of stupid unpreparedness. My face is bright red, my arms are bright red, and my dick is bright red too because I comfort myself and distract myself from pain with pleasure.

Why am I writing this? Because I wanted to give you the context under which I could make a bunch of inappropriate or stupid jokes about my situation.

1. I can’t imagine anyone who has a worse life than me. At least those people in Darfur can’t get sunburned.

2. This is the most apeeling my arms have ever been. Because I have very little muscle mass and the skin on my arms is peeling.

3. I’m in so much pain that I leave a trail of tears wherever I go – like a redskin.

4. I hated rednecks so much in high school, but now I stand in redfaced embarrassment because I am one of them. Because I’m poor.

5. Here’s a love poem. Roses are red, I’m more red, why do roses get all the credit for being red? Have you seen me lately? I’m really red! I’m way redder than roses. This is bullshit, stop talking about roses, use me in your love poems!!

comedy, Depressed, Indignant, race

Fuck the Boring and Pretentious

My dad is now 63. I am now tired.

As I am my father’s son, I begin wondering what will happen over the next forty years that will lead me to owning a vaguely successful health food store. I do not look to be on that path, but I also know that is where I will end up. I have to. Maybe the series of accidental demolitions of bridges that I have set aflame will force me off to the woods where I will attempt to drag in some hip urban fad into this sleepy town because I miss the life of culture. Maybe thats the path I will follow. He had the first espresso machine and vegan microwave patties on my island. I’ll have the first storytelling and feminist burlesque show in Incorporated Township #6, Iowa.

There was a professor in college who hated me. I took a class outside of my two regular disciplines of math and theater because I was going through a phase of being interested in African American history. He was a moron. We had very similar beliefs politically – both thought socialism shouldn’t be perceived as some silly idealistic fantasy, wanted to have constant discussions about gender and racial identity, but he hated me. He hated me because he didn’t like the way I brought up topics in class. When I wanted to discuss something that was possibly problematic, I would throw out a theory that I wasn’t sure if I believed or not and asked that we discussed it. This is how I had been taught to analyze in mathematics. Follow a path until you find that it is not the right path and then you are allowed to turn around and start over. Even theater was about analyzing characters, both good and bad, and sometimes this meant that a character you originally thought was good was bad or somewhere in between.

He wanted me to have lengthy internal discussions and research before I said anything. It was his way of maintaining his importance in society. As a professor of an intellectually interesting but completely useless discipline, he was attempting to force his usefulness by demanding that people listen to him not only to hear the amazing amount of information his mind had amassed, but also to form their opinions because he must have better opinions as someone who had spent a lot of time and money studying.

I wrote a paper comparing Chris Rock and August Wilson, using 90s mockumentary CB4 as my main evidence. He hated this. It was a good paper. It was a paper that was well researched and well conceived. He hated it because it compared Chris Rock, a man who was some stupid comedian, to August Wilson, who was one of the most brilliant minds of the 20th century.

It was pure pretension that led him to dislike my paper, dislike me, and be a white guy who wore African beads despite referring to African Musical Ensemble as a minstrel show. Pretension is comedy’s biggest enemy. I overheard this same professor once explaining to someone how there was a giant dinosaur in the Mall of America who was playing in front of these kids and how this was just another form of capitalist propaganda. I couldn’t agree with him any more. He said it with a serious tone because he demanded to be taken seriously. How do you not see the hilarity of that situation? It’s a giant stuffed dinosaur telling kids how to shop! That sketch writes itself. Comedy is not the absence of importance, comedy is the explanation of what’s important in a way that can be palatable to discuss. Comedy is not demanding that you be seen as important, intelligent, and god’s gift to humanity but instead focus on the actual issue at hand. Comedy is humility. Comedy is the opposite of pretension.

I am a professional bridge burner. All of this burnings have occurred because I refused to stop making jokes just because I was discussing something serious. Jokes help me get to the deeper truth. The jokes are typically at my own expense or at least taking our beliefs to the extreme so that we can see the absurdity of both our points of view. Others are stubborn. Others refuse to acknowledge any mistake they might have made. Others are pretentious.

Maybe I will follow in my dad’s footsteps. I’ll follow them in that I will have a group of people who hate me, and I will have a group of people who like me a lot. This will be divided along the lines of who understands my form of communication (aka: people with a good sense of humor). I’m comfortable with that.


Kicking Me While I’m Down

I can’t think.

Guilt becomes such a powerful numbing agent when used incorrectly. Guilt can be so helpful – it can motivate a person to do right, to make up for doing wrong, but when done wrong guilt causes numbness. Part of the reason for my desires for a world made up entirely of my clones is to have a world full of people who feel as consistently guilty as I do. The thing is, that this guilt that helps push forward society is only helpful when the feeler of said guilt understands what they feel guilty about – when they can change something in their life to relieve that guilt. When one has no comprehension of what they feel guilty for, then one obsesses about it – can’t think of anything but what you could do to make yourself feel less guilty.

This utopian world of people who are not just like me but are me would be a world of guiltful creatures, but they would also be self aware – so self aware that whatever they saw/heard/felt/did that made them feel so guilty, they would know what steps to take to attempt an undoing.

When I was 6 I slapped my dad. I was having a bad day and he tried to cheer me up by racing me down the driveway, but he didn’t let me win. When he finished and turned around to pick me up and congratulate me on getting 2nd place out of two people, I slapped him. He was supposed to let me win because he was my dad and I was having a shitty day. He wasn’t supposed to kick me when I was down. I still feel guilty about it.

Everytime my dad and I argue over the fact htat he tries to force me to take his advice on what to do with my career despite the fact that he knows nothing about what to do, I remember that event and feel guilty and tell him he’s right and I’m sorry.

I feel so guilty about it because it was a bout of anger, and anger is so purposefully out of character for me. It doesn’t befit me because I decided it is an unproductive emotion. Here guilt causes you to find ways to right the wrongs of the world, anger causes you to cause enough wrongs that you don’t have to be the only one who’s been wronged. As we all know, an eye for an eye makes a world full of people mis-accused of masturbating too much.

Since the slapping incident, I’ve only had one time where I let my anger get the best of me and I slapped again, and I still feel so guilty about that incident that I don’t want to talk about it. That’s untrue. I had another slapping incident I just forgot about. I once slapped a girl for making fun of my best friend for liking her, or something like that, I honestly don’t remember because I blacked out because of guilt. I have no recollection of the event or the following 30 minutes despite not being on any substances.

I am numb to these events. I cannot comprehend their existence and therefore when I think about them my mind finds it impossible to focus on anything else, and I begin to feel like yelling. I believe that this is guilt without self awareness – this is anger. Anger is the reaction to being unable to comprehend your own guilt.

Maybe this is my own obsession with guilt attempting to relate all emotions to the one my whiteness and Jewishness have combined to make my only emotion, but maybe there is some validity to this. Maybe all feelings are just different manifestations of guilt.

Depression is simply self-obsessive guilt – guilt that your life isn’t what you wanted it to be and you aren’t taking the necessary steps to improve it.

Happiness is when all guilt is resolved.

Lust is just guilt that you haven’t worked hard enough to please your genitalia.

Fear is anticipated guilt.

Nervous is the same with an understanding that the guilt you are about to feel is pretty trivial.

Drunk is just guilt manifested into action.

If all feelings are just one stage of guilt or another, then we can force these emotions to become the productive emotion of guilt. Transform any emotion you have into guilt. Then we can finally have a world full of neurotic self-obsessed blogger/comedians who believe that they somehow figured out the key to life. Doesn’t that sound fun?!


Look I’m depressed, and I want to feel guilty for forcing you into my life.

Don’t kick me while I’m down. I might slap back.

Depressed, Hungry

Depression Chips

I don’t buy enough food to support a depression. As I’ve stated before I do not seek hierarchy in my emotions and therefore am prone to bouts of depression, existential angst, and fearful running away. I do most of these with a smile on my face because I am aware that this means I am living correctly. The problem is that these bouts, however non normative they may be, are still supplemented with the typical lethargy and hunger that is associated with depression. Considering how lazy I am in my normal life and how desperately I constantly seek food, this means I become a mindless, moveless, eating machine.

The problem is that I live on restaurant row and work in a restaurant and my kitchen has flooded multiple times with the sewage of the entire apartment building. I don’t buy many groceries. When I lived in Maine, I had a basement full of outdated healthfood snacks that I would bring into my recliner chair to comfort me in my time of upper class white guilt, but now I have no chips to keep my mouth in constant motion, and I have no sleeves of cookies to magically disappear during the time it takes a sitcom to finish because I forget to buy snacks.

Snacks are more important than we pretend they are. If I could just eat snacks and not eat meals, I would. Especially if there were dipping sauces.

There was a summer where I lived next to a Super America. Super America is the convenience store of the midwest that offers you chili if you push a button. I loved SA. I used to go there for donuts and come away with a sandwich, cheese and ranch dipping sauces and three different bags of chips. The best part about that was not finishing all the chips. Tomorrow, when you are playing mariokart and don’t want to leave the house, you don’t have to because you have bags of opened doritos lining every part of the house.

I need to buy more chips and leave them in secret hiding places all around the house. That would keep me going through this depression. It also might bring me friends in the form of rodents. YAY!