Internet bro thinks he's a comedian, says something dumb, gets indignant when people react to it. Then Patton Oswalt, a comedian I adore, respect, and procured my first fake ID to see perform, retweeted him.
Sometimes I buy food to just HAVE it, in the house, and to know it’s there, and that I'm prepared in a food-based emergency. A bit like responsible people who keep a fire extinguisher under the sink. Just in case.
I’m on stage. But on this particular night, about five minutes into my set, a table of 10 dudes starting chanting:
“Show us your tits! Show us your tits! Show us your tits!”
My body will never run marathons or win beauty pageants, and it might always be sick, but do you know what it does every day, quite effectively? It lives. I live.
Instead of allowing life to happen to me, instead of sitting by powerlessly as things took a turn for the worst, I took the reigns and faced misfortune head on.
Sometimes when you’re feeling a little lost, a little self-destructive and in dire need of a clean slate, you kind of just need to sleep with your ex boyfriend.
While I'm sure your political commentary is indeed incisive and cutting and generally luminous, maybe hold that brilliant analysis back for a day or two. One thing at a time.
It’s a solid middle class salary, untaxed, and it’s contingent on nothing. I don’t have to work for it, nor can anyone take it away from me if I behave badly. I did nothing to earn it.
As of today, May 15th, we've been on the road for over 2 months. We've covered over 6,000 miles. From June through October, we'll be traveling though the southern and eastern half of the US, giving away pie twice per week.
Weird/bad dreams make you feel weird/bad. So you act weird/bad, too. But now science has your back.
Was it something I said? Was it my resume? My race?
The ADA prevents anyone from directly questioning me about it. But I always choose to. Let me tell you why.
The other night I decided to take a trip down memory lane with my old Xanga and MySpace accounts. Before I knew it, I was sucked into the black hole of my teenage angst.
The nightmare began in February when the cops came to arrest my daughter, who had just turned 18, and took her away without telling us what was happening.
The very fact this question occurs to me is a sign of just how skewed the thinking is on mental illness in this country: my mind is framing it, even if unintentionally, as a personal weakness
Why do we allow a number to hold so much power over our self-perception?