I’m a pimp.

I’m Puttin' on the Ritz.

I age backwards, so I'm actually 87-years-old and it’s perfectly normal to be using one. Expected, really.

December is my busy season. When things are winding down, I am winding up. Not only is the year coming to a close, but I have a habit of taking contracts that wrap up in November.

(Whispers. Whispers.)

(More whispers.)

"...She's not even capitalized yet and she wants to redefine? That's presumptuous..."

Presumptuous: Hey!

I’m currently reading Sicker in the Head: More Conversations About Life and Comedy. I never got to interview my comedic idols on a high school radio station like Judd Apatow, or follow my favorite musicians on the road like Cameron Crowe,

I miss the office. I miss having somewhere to go. I miss being among a community. I miss looking out into a sea of faces.

My mushroom trip started as wholesome as it could have. I was at a farmhouse in the countryside, frolicking in the tall grass in my denim overalls and french braids like the tomboy protagonist in a coming-of-age classic studied in high schools long past its relevance.

The late morning light streams in through the blinds and stripes the bed. It looks like jail bars standing between me and the golden glow of freedom.

It’s very disconcerting waiting for a date and not knowing what direction they’re going to come from.

Hey, you. Ya you, sexy thing leaning against the wall. What’s that little smile you got there? That smirk and glance you’ve flicked towards us like a cheeky little Fleabag breaking the fourth wall.

You’ve asked me here today to... explain my situation, I guess. When people hear that I’m my own therapist, they usually laugh.

I love my mom and I love my boyfriend, but that’s just it: I am the middleman, or at least, I should be.

As Diane on Cheers once said, “We don’t love books, Sam. We love people. We own books.” And while the sound of Diane’s pretentious enunciation and feathery condescension is nothing to aspire to, this is how I feel about our appearances.

I’ve recently stopped taking baths in order to avoid being accidentally mistaken for cured pork.

I can't remember when my obsessive, compulsive behaviour started. Maybe I saw my brother doing it and thought it was only fair if I developed it, too.