Moving on.

When I moved to Chicago, I thought I’d leave before college graduation.

I wanted to be a teacher and it made sense to my seventeen year old self to only go to an out of state college for three years then come back to CT or NY to get certified within that state. But when I changed my major three days into my freshman year, that plan went out the window.

I was supposed to move back to the East Coast after college graduation. Actually, I did move back to the East Coast. Well, kinda. I did not renew my lease in Chicago. I packed up and planned to move home but was called in for a job interview. The day before going home, I put all of my stuff in storage then went on the interview. I figured that if I didn’t get the job, I could come back and get my stuff. Then I packed all my clothes and headed home. We immediately went on vacation for a week where I found out that I was being called in for a second interview. After vacation, I headed back to Chicago and took the job. So essentially, I just over packed for vacation

When I started working in Chicago, I had no immediate plans to leave. I always knew I would eventually end up on the East Coast, but I never had a definite time frame. My standard answer was that I would be in Chicago for two more years, which turned into three, which turned into four. Two years ago, I was ready to pack up everything and move to Los Angeles but breaking my knee put those plans on hold. I wasn’t too upset about that though because Chicago always pulled me back.

I’m nine and a half years into my extended stay in Chicago. I love this city with my entire heart. I love the people I met and the strangers who greet me with the kindness and optimism that can only be traced back to the Midwest. I love taking an hour long walk after work along the lake and finding myself still in awe of our skyline. I love the neighborhoods I lived in – Lincoln Park, the Southport Corridor of Lakeview and now Uptown. I love that I always find something new in the city like how expansive Montrose Park is or where to order the best Chicken Shawarma plate. I love when I find myself back on DePaul’s campus and replay the memories: the quad where I used to run through the sprinklers after a night of drinking, the dorm where I met my best friends, the hall where I was initiated into Chi Omega. I feel the pit in my stomach churning when I find myself by my old place on Cornelia, wishing I had enough money to buy the townhouse that I loved so much. I like the way we all gather inside for long nights of beers and Christmas lights in the winter and eat outside every night in the summer. I love Eagles games at Mad River, our annual Christmas Trolley and late nights after comedy shows at Old Town Alehouse. I love how it’s in the middle of the country so flying to either coast is not a hassle. In college I cried on every ride to the airport down Lake Shore Drive. I knew I would be back soon, but I never wanted to leave. I would strain my neck looking back at the skyline on the way to Midway until it was completely out of view.

I never wanted to permanently live in Chicago. I stand by that. For every reason I have for loving Chicago, I have another reason I want to be home. The thought of raising children so far away from my family is worse than leaving Chicago. I don’t want to be a long distance aunt anymore. I missed a lot of my nephew and cousins growing up and while I don’t regret my time here, it’s bittersweet to see all the time lost whenever I realize how old they are. While I pride myself in being a lot more present these days because I’m more financially stable, I want to be able to join in on all the little things the next generation of my family will bring. I want to be at sports games and school plays and whenever I have my own kids, I want sleepovers with cousins and dinners with grandma. Beyond family, I miss New England. I miss having four seasons instead of two and being so close to so many major cities. I don’t like that each time I come home it’s an event. I want to be able to visit with friends without feeling like I’m stiffing my family. I’d like to be able to relax instead of making sure I got to see everyone while home. And I miss New England falls. GOD how I miss New England falls. I miss the hills and the trees and the mountains. I miss the foliage and the scent of October. I miss being able to hike up real trails instead of city paths.

But each time I think I’m ready to leave, something pulls me back. It’s not easy being in love with a city so far from home. I wish New York or Philadelphia had the same vibe as Chicago.

I know that in the next few years I’ll be leaving this city. Where I’m going next I’m not too sure of. I don’t know if I want to spend a year in LA living in warm weather for once before returning to the East Coast, or if I just want to head straight home. I’m not even sure of where on the East Coast I want to live. While I’m 90% sure I’ll end up in New York City, which would split the difference between my extended family in New Jersey and my immediate family in Connecticut, I’m not positive. I may jet out to California in a year then head over to New York City a year or two later. But whatever way I split it, I have two years max left in Chicago.

I’ve set dates on moves before, so I know things can change. But the problem is that I keep on delaying my departure which makes it more difficult to leave. I fall more in love with this city with each passing year. There are some good reasons why I haven’t left Chicago, like breaking my knee and wanting to stay with my medical team until completely recovered, but the truth is that I’m also terrified. I wasn’t scared of going to college. Everyone made some sort of leap that year. And while I was constantly scared after college, it was also a normal transitional period. But here I am, in my late twenties, and there are no external forces like going to college or joining the workforce to push me out. This decision is completely self-motivated and I’m the only one that can execute it. I’m scared that I won’t find the same support group I have here. I’m worried that moving closer to my family will keep me from hustling in comedy. I’m concerned that my constant indecisiveness on where to live will be what keeps relationships from forming.

My friends in Connecticut and Los Angeles will all confirm that I’m not a great long distance friend. I miss and love them but get distracted when I’m in a different city. I push away from the ones I’m really close to because it hurts to know we no longer live close enough to be dependent on each other. I try to separate myself so I’m not disappointed when their life eventually goes on and they find someone to fill my void in their new city. I want to change these things about myself, but I know that it’s something I struggle with.

I know that Chicago will always be here to visit. But I loved being a resident. I know my close friends will remain my close friends and I’ll probably come back as often as I jet to the East Coast right now. And I know that if I ever find that I made the wrong decision, there’s a three story walkup on Cornelia Ave. that I’m more than happy to put a down payment on.

I chose the perfect city to become an adult in, both legally and mentally. Any pain or hurt is almost always the result of loving something, so I’m thankful that I found myself in a city that I loved so hard.

After almost 10 years, I’ll finally answer the most frequently asked question of an East Coast transplant: Chicago is WAY better than New York*. But sometimes the thing we love most isn’t what fits best.

*(Except for the pizza. NYC thin crust over Chicago any day.)

#Whole30

So I fell into a fad diet.

For the last 30 days, I ate according to Whole 30. After having knee surgery in October, and my team going all the way to a Super Bowl win, I wasn’t eating well. I was immobile for two months and while I tried to eat as healthy as possible, it meant a lot of canned soup and pasta. My metabolism was gone because I couldn’t do anything so I was never hungry. I’d eat maybe once a day then snack on all the sweets and easy to grab carbs.

With the Super Bowl, I spent Sundays at a bar where I’d grab a Philly Cheesesteak and a few beers. While I’m someone who loves to cook, and never cooks unhealthy food, I had a hard time with eating out and grabbing takeout. When I started walking again, I started working and going through physical therapy, both of which were incredibly exhausting, and never had the energy to cook. Living in a major city grants me unlimited access to takeout, so I would typically grab some Thai food across the street because the thought of cooking was exhausting.

I decided that once the Super Bowl was over, I’d get back to clean eating and chose Whole 30 because I have a handful of friends who enjoyed it. It was a much easier plan than others I’ve tried. There weren’t rules assigned to days or times, and there were zero to no bans on specific fruits or vegetables (except corn, which I eat maybe twice a year, and lima beans/peas, which I never eat). The rules were pretty easy – no sugar, alcohol, grains, gluten, soy, dairy, beans, etc. etc. It was easier to focus on the things I could eat: meat, fruits, veggies, most nuts and seeds. There wasn’t any measuring of olive oil, or banana ban, so it actually ended up being much easier than I anticipated.

There’s a few things that helped lead to my success. First, I love to cook. On normal days before my surgery, I usually cooked all of my meals. I prefer my own food to eating out. The oils used in takeout tend to make my skin feel hot and I just like what I like. So having to cook every single meal for thirty days wasn’t a huge challenge. It just meant that I had to take the extra time. Instead of being too lazy and sleepy to pack my lunch for the next day, I forced myself to take the fifteen minutes before bed to do it.

I also really love the taste of healthy food. Even when I’m not eating well, I still love the taste of fresh fruits and vegetables. I was never a carbs person. Growing up, I never really ate pasta or bread. So aside from revising my snacks, cutting gluten out wasn’t much different than my normal diet. I spent a third of my life allergic to dairy, another third lactose intolerant and the last third trying to convince my body to build up a tolerance, so cutting dairy wasn’t a big issue either. I never drank milk and only started liking cheese in college. I always kept greek yogurt in my fridge for a quick snack or breakfast, but never craved it. So dairy was easy to let go. The only things I really missed were hummus, brown rice, ketchup, Diet Coke and peanut butter. While I definitely wasn’t making healthy choices before Whole 30, I still enjoyed healthy food, so it wasn’t like I had to train myself to like new food.

I also never had to count days. I started right after the Super Bowl and my 30 day marker was my mom coming out to visit tomorrow. I was actually pretty surprised when I realized today was my last day. It’s helpful to not have to mark each passing day or have a countdown. Additionally, there wasn’t much going on. February is a boring month full of nights in and snowy days so I didn’t have to worry about the social aspect of it. Over all thirty days, I only had five alcoholic drinks and ate two tiny things that I wasn’t supposed to. I never felt like I was missing out.

The biggest advantage I had was my financial security. As someone who spent most of my life trying to find the cheapest groceries possible, it was a privilege to have a good enough job that I can spend $2.50 on an avocado when I don’t want to go all the way to Whole Foods where they’re half the price (surprising, yet true… their avocados are practically free). I could afford to buy almond butter, ghee and organic beef jerky. While I’d rather not pay $2.50 per Rx bar when I could get a whole box of Kashi bars for the same price, I was able to for a month. I wanted to set myself up for success, so I allowed myself to buy the pricier groceries if it meant I wouldn’t cheat on the program. If I tried doing this even a year ago, it would be much more difficult because I would have to settle for whatever produce I could afford that week.

I tried not to talk about it. I only brought it up if I had to explain why I wasn’t eating or drinking. In the past, I was that person always writing posts about what I was eating and this time around I didn’t have the desire. I didn’t even weigh myself before it. It was less about weight loss than it was about reclaiming my body after having no control over it. For two years I’ve had to bend to its every demand and I was finally able to tell it what to do. It was a bit of a cleanse. Riding myself of the long and boring recovery days and celebrating the fact I could grocery shop and cook again. I posted my food on Instagram, but that was about it.

I found that by not talking about it, I normalized the way I ate. When I was filming, I brought my own snacks in case craft services didn’t have anything for me to eat instead of sending my “dietary restriction” over. Luckily there is almost always a bunch of healthy snacks at craft services and I didn’t have to worry about it. When I was at a friend’s party, I found the things I could eat and avoided the rest. When I went out, I drank the least amount of calories possible but didn’t explain why I wasn’t grabbing my usual beer. When a friend wanted to do dinner, I offered to cook so I could make something I could easily eat. Treating it as no big deal preventing it from feeling like one.

Honestly, I feel great. I have more energy and am much happier. My 5:40am alarm clock is less menacing because I don’t feel like a sloth anymore. While the diet is meant to be just a 30 day thing, I know I’ll adapt a lot of it into my day to day routine. I’ll take back the beans, brown rice and occasional gluten but I’m more or less done with dairy. I decided to eat at least one yogurt a week so I will be able to tolerate dairy when I want to indulge in the occasional cheese platter or slice but there’s no reason to keep a container of goat cheese in my fridge. I decided to limit my sugar intake to twice a week, in whatever form I want, so I can continue to reach for an all fruit smoothie or clementine instead of tootsie rolls. Plantain chips are my new pretzels and I’ll keep a bag of frozen turkey meatballs for nights when I don’t want to cook. Dates are the new sweet and I’m only allowing myself one Diet Coke a week. When drinking, I’ll opt for a good vodka soda, or dirty martini, and try to limit my beer and wine intake.

The largest habit I wanted to break is getting takeout. I decided to create a “take out tracker” in my bullet journal. If I don’t eat out for ten days in a row, I get a free meal where I can pick up dinner or bank it for another day. If I break my streak with anything but a reward, I have to start new.

It’s nice to try a diet when your goal isn’t weight loss. Honestly I have no idea how much I weighed before this and have no clue what I weigh now. I’m trying to go for something a little more sustainable than what was popular in the past. But I can’t lie – it does feel nice to fit a little better in my jeans.

Sexism and Pain

As the #MeToo and #TimesUp movements gain power and voices, I’ve been nursing my most recent story in my head. I was quick to jump on with accounts of my own harassment, assault and constant struggle to be taken seriously in my career. I think it’s time to talk about my most recent medical journey as well.

Two years ago, I was rehearsing for a show when I bent backwards to narrowly escape a fencing jab. My left knee gave out and I crumbled to the floor. An intense and sharp pain shot from my knee through my whole body. It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt.. so bad that when my writing partner went to grab her car, I started throwing up. My knee started swelling immediately and I couldn’t put any weight on it without unbearable pain.

The morning after I went to the ER, the hospital called me to let me know they found a small fracture in my kneecap and advised me to get to an orthopedist as soon as possible. As it was Friday, my options were limited. I called every orthopedic office until I found someone with a Monday appointment.

That following Monday, I saw Dr. Trash for the first time. (Why I’m concealing the identity of a doctor that doesn’t deserve protection is beside me, but his pseudonym is not only fitting but also very close to his actual last name so it works.) I didn’t think much of having to wait over an hour past my appointment time in his office (all doctors operate like that, right?) and didn’t care that he rushed the appointment. All I cared about at that time was getting the medication needed to ease my pain and the doctors note to clear my absence from work. He asked about the injury and I explained it to him. I told him that it felt like my knee twisted and that there was bone on bone. He laughed at the description, citing it’s impossibility. He looked at my x-ray for about 30 seconds then diagnosed me with a dislocated knee. He advised me to stay in a thigh to ankle immobilizer and come back after two weeks.

I went home and, despite my medication, was still in so much pain that I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t even lay in my bed because laying flat was uncomfortable. For the next two weeks, I just dealt with the pain and powered through it.

Two weeks later, I went back to Dr. Trash’s office. When I said that I wasn’t doing any better, he said it was probably because I wasn’t icing or elevating. I told him I was doing that constantly and my office even got me a special chair to elevate. He told me I would be sore for a bit but that’s “just how teenage girls’ bodies are.” I was 25. I thought it was a weird comment but didn’t think much beyond that at the time. He wrote me a script for more pain meds and pushed me out as fast as I came in.

I started PT and spent the first month relearning how to walk because the immobilizer stiffened up my leg. I was in constant pain. I started to get worried that something more was wrong. My roommate has a strong history of dislocating her knee and I’ve seen her recover before. Her recovery was much shorter and appeared to be less painful, but I thought “oh well, everyone’s body is different.”

A month later, I was back in Dr. Trash’s office. At this point, I was starting to get really concerned. After relearning how to walk, I was finally starting to strengthen my knee at PT and it was met with intense, localized pain.

When asked how I was doing, I told Dr. Trash that my pain was getting worse with physical therapy. I told him it was localized and that it almost felt as if my knee was like a puzzle that didn’t quite fit together. He dismissed my pain, stating that these things take time and I would be sore for awhile, but I told him that I wasn’t sore, I was in pain. He told me that the way teenage girls’ bodies are stacked puts pressure on your knee and therefore causes discomfort. I revealed to him, yet again, that I wasn’t a teenage girl and that my pain wasn’t discomfort – it was sharp, localized pain. He mentioned my teenage girl body yet again, and said this is all common for girls dislocating their knee. I told him that I was concerned I tore something when I fell, and asked why I didn’t get a MRI. He told me that he usually doesn’t issue MRIs for women with knee dislocations since dislocations are so common in, you guessed it, teenage girls. Defeated, I gave up.

I feel like I need to clarify at the point that I never had a “teenage girl’s” body. I grew boobs and hips before I ever knew what they were and never hosted a typical teen body. As an overweight 25 year old, I DEFINITELY wasn’t hosting one. I also grew up as an athlete and had my fair share of sprains, pulls and thrown out necks. I had chronic pain due Lyme putting water in my knee as a kid and carpal tunnel as a teen. I understood the difference between long term ache and “holy shit something is wrong.” Something was wrong.

Over the next two months, both of my PTs and I started getting frustrated with my lack of results and increased pain. There were sessions that brought me to tears because I was in so much pain. No one knew how to help ease it and it seemed that everything they did made it worse. I recall holding my breath and concealing my tears as my PT rolled out my patellar tendon because the pain was so bad it sent goosebumps to my skin. (Turns out she was rolling right over the actual trouble spot without realizing it.) Defeated, my PT checked in with me one day. “So it’s just a dislocation. Your x-ray didn’t show anything else, right?” “Aside from the ER showing a small fracture, nope.” “And your MRI was clear?” “I didn’t get a MRI.” “Why?” “My doctor won’t prescribe one.” “You need to push for a MRI.” he mumbled under his breath.

That was the jolt of confidence I needed to make another appointment with Dr. Trash. I decided I would push as hard as possible for a MRI then take it to another orthopedic surgeon. The night before my next appointment, I ran into my old roommate who broke her femur when I lived with her. As I was telling her about my rough recovery from a seemingly simple injury, she asked me who my doctor was. I told her it was Dr. Trash and she told me to run away from him. He was the same doctor who did her leg surgery wrong, and when she questioned him about her pain and bowed leg, he dismissed the pain and told her she would just have to wear long skirts for the rest of her life, like her problem was that superficial.

The next day I went into Dr. Trash’s office with more confidence than I had over the last 8 months. When he asked me how I was doing, I was honest and told him worse than when I came in. I told him that I was in immense pain that only got worse with PT. He told me women tend to feel pain worse than men, especially when it came to TEENAGE GIRLS DISLOCATING THEIR KNEE. I was done with his shit, and demanded a MRI. He told me he doesn’t prescribe MRIs for women’s knees because of the high statistics of TEENAGE GIRLS DISLOCATING THEIR KNEES. I told him I was not a teenage girl, and even my limited medical knowledge told me that there were enough ligaments and cartilage in the knee that a MRI seemed appropriate. He told me “honey, you didn’t do any damage to your cartilage or ligaments, you dislocated your knee.” I asked him how he was so sure, and again he gave me the stats on how common of an injury it was with teenage girls. He told me insurance would never cover the MRI. I told him I didn’t care, I’d pay full price for it. He then, defeated, told me “Well I guess I can falsify your prescription and tell them we’re looking for floating cartilage or something so insurance will accept it. Will that make you feel better, sweetie?” I resisted the urge to punch him in the dick, said yes, grabbed my script and walked out of his office for good.

After getting my MRI, I went to one of the best knee surgeons in Chicago. In my first appointment, he spent more time that Dr. Trash did in all my appointments and told me that the problem was that I chipped a chunk of cartilage off my leg. He said it could be seen a bit in the x-ray alone, but was clear as day in the MRI. The MRI also showed bone bruising and minor ligament damage, all of this caused by… my bone coming together when my knee twisted. EXACTLY WHAT DR. TRASH TOLD ME WAS IMPOSSIBLE. My new doctor, Dr. Hair, told me nothing was impossible in medicine. A few months later, I found out that the second thing I felt, my knee feeling like a bad puzzle, was also true. I had surgery that revealed a piece of cartilage as big as a nickel chipped off and lodged itself into another part of my knee.

It has been almost two years since my initial injury and I’m still recovering from my most recent major knee surgery which should correct my defect. I spent eight months of that time with a doctor who dismissed my pain and diagnosed me off of statistics instead of symptoms then didn’t listen when I told him I was in pain.

I wish I knew at 25 what I know at 27. You know your body. Trust it and listen to it, and the second a man starts comparing it to the statistics of teenage girls, run to a doctor who will listen to you. I heard stories that women often had pain dismissed by male doctors but had never experienced it myself. I wish I listened to the little voice that kept telling me something more was wrong, but instead I trusted that someone who thought my biggest symptom was being female knew more than me just because he had 50 years of medical experience. Every single day I’m thankful for my PT and old roommate who gave me the confidence needed to run away from Dr. Trash.

When I think about that time in my recovery, I fall into a depression. This injury changed everything for me. It kept me from performing and pursuing my comedy dreams, cost me thousands of dollars, made me miss months of work and stopped me from being a typical mid-20 something. Instead of going out, I had to relearn how to walk three different times. I spend $90 a week on PT. I lost friends because I couldn’t do anything for weeks at a time. For two years, I couldn’t perform or hustle like I used to while I watched peers get closer to their dreams. My plans of moving to LA were replaced with surgery dates and recovery windows. When I realize that this all could have been resolved in a single year instead of two had I not gone to Dr. Trash, I become furious.

So, ladies (and gents too), what can I teach you? Listen to your bodies and trust that know them. You are not reduced to a statistic based on your gender. And the second a doctor starts dismissing your pain or comparing you to a teenage girl, run the fuck away.

I’m back.

I decided to start routinely writing in my blog again.

There are a couple reasons for this.

The inciting incident is a conversation I recently had with someone where I was talking at length about my post “My Worst Moment in Improv”. I mentioned how, in the aftermath of that post, I started backing away from both writing in my blog and improvising as a whole. I didn’t expect so many people to read my words and wasn’t prepared for the reactions I received. I was contacted by classmates who expressed regret in not stepping in on scenes that went too far. I was contacted by too many women who shared the same sentiment. I was contacted by theaters in other cities that asked me for advice on how to implement change in their own theaters, like speaking out about an issue makes me qualified to write their harassment policy for free instead of hiring a HR rep. I started slowly, and subconsciously, backing away from improv as a whole. I was tired of having to speak on behalf of all women. I was disgusted by the handful of people who shared my words & were the same people I saw inflict harm on women in the community. I was sick of showing up in buildings, including the one I worked in, and having the words “So I read your article. To play devil’s advocate, isn’t it more dangerous to deny creativity?” being said to my face. I was frustrated that I was being asked to explain consensual scene work like some kind of expert, yet was not being paid for the energy it took out of me. I was done with men stepping up to prove that they’re “good ones” like I didn’t have the ability to read them upon meeting them. I didn’t expect the reaction to consume so much of my energy and just grew tired and disenchanted by the entire community. A lot of that was on me. I wasn’t bold enough to just tell people to fuck off. I felt a sense of responsibility to continue the conversation and educate people who were inquiring. But clearly it took more out of me than I thought, because when I look back, that article is what caused me to slowly back out of the improv game and stop writing in my blog.

Two years later and I found myself back in a class with an instructor I trusted and admired for years. During the class I did the same exercise that the article I wrote was based on for the first time since a bunch of dudes thought date gang rape is a great group scene idea and I checked out completely. I felt disconnected and just wanted to get through it. I did, without incident, and was proud and sad and just thinking a shit ton. I came to the realization that I allowed my experience a few years ago take so much from me. I was pissed at myself for letting that entire experience keep me from two things I love – writing personal posts and improvising. After a high quality long conversation on a sticky and humid summer night, I decided to throw myself back into both writing and improvising.

The second reason is because in a month, I’ll be having major knee surgery for a dumbass accident I had almost two years ago. During a rehearsal, I made a dumb physical choice and fucked up the cartilage in my knee. I have already been through one surgery and two counts of learning how to walk again and am dreading this last round. The surgery will require that I do not put any weight on my leg for about six weeks. Short term recovery (being able to walk well, swim, exercise lightly, etc.) will take six months and I should be fully recovered in a year. While I’m grateful that this will be my last surgery, and that I have really good insurance to cover a highly specialized and expensive procedure, I’m really dreading sitting on my couch again. It’s really hard to be in limbo for two years while I watch my friends go on with their careers and lives. I did not think that my mid-twenties would be defined by this injury. I hate thinking about where I’d be if I didn’t have to take so much time out for recovery. While I want to be happy for my friends and their achievements, it’s hard for me to hear about their trials and tribulations in the comedy world while I’m stuck in this knee limbo unable to do anything. Before this accident, I felt like I was constantly creating, performing, writing, and working hard to achieve my goals. I finally got some of that wind back this summer, and now I know I have a year of recovery starting soon. I cried like a baby last night upon realizing that I might have performed for the last time before my surgery. So I’m trying to be proactive and reintroduce things I can do while recovering. One of those things is this blog.

So I’m back. Because I need this outlet again. I have a lot of thoughts I’ve been bottling up and my Facebook statuses weren’t providing adequate space. 

Why my writing partner is my most important relationship.

Writing is difficult. It’s lonely and hard and self deprecating. Between the time I decided to write this post and actually wrote the first line, I checked my Gmail, Facebook, toyed with the idea of watching Orange is the New Black, convinced myself not to watch Orange is the New Black, bought a cup of turkey chili, went back and bought some crackers, washed an apple, stirred my chili, texted my writing partner, checked my Gmail again and started a conversation with the stranger next to me. And as I write this, I’m really fighting the temptation to just watch Orange is the New Black.

I just got an email I’ve been waiting weeks to get. About an opportunity that I can’t wait to accept. But I can’t respond to the email because if I stop writing this post for just a second, I’ll convince myself that it’s stupid and a waste of time and it will forever live in the graveyard that is my Drafts folder.

Writing is a bad boyfriend. It gives you a few moments of purpose and fulfillment that keep you going through all the dark times. It tells you that you’re never going to be smart enough, your grammar will always suck and your ideas are boring and bland. No one cares about your story. Everyone sees your typos and inability to spell. Comma splices and run-on sentences taunt me and tell me that I’m not smart and who am I kidding and I really deserve to watch Orange is the New Black because I’m currently on my twenty minute break from work and a break should be a break and is it all worth it and I’m so selfish and I’ll never know the difference between lightening and lightning.

This is why my writing partner is the most important (non-familial)  relationship in my life right now.

My writing partner’s name is Sophia Rafiqi and she is the most vile human I know (that’s not true, but I know that it’ll make her happy for me to state that.)

We met 2+ years ago while studying improv at The Second City. We first bonded over Benadryl/NyQuil dependancies and continued talking for hours on the corner of North and Sedgwick. This became our tradition. Every week after class, I pretended to head to the el and she pretended to head to her car but we both knew that we’d end up on that corner talking for hours.

Like most people, I was terrified of Sophia when I met her. She’s the epitome of cool and has this dark sense of humor where you’re not exactly sure if she’s joking or not. The love of her life is that guy from There Will Be Blood and I don’t know his name because I’ve never seen it. She loves Dolly Parton, her sister and thinks that humans are meant to be outside. She’s highly intelligent and can give you an oral dissertation on why Kristen Wiig is the best actress around. When she met my mom, she brought her a candle that crackles like wood and when we finished our two person show, she bought me a ring that I keep in my wallet because I’m too afraid that I’ll leave it somewhere.

We were friends before we were writing partners. We spent endless hours hanging out before we ever wrote a single script together. The first sketch we wrote together was so bad that when we sent it to our director a few months ago as a joke, asking for it to be included in our next show, he truly thought that we were kidding – that the script didn’t exist beforehand and we wrote it to tease him.

We’re opposites that are built exactly the same. I never have to guess how she feels about something and we never disagree when we write. We agree and move on, agree and move on, agree and move on. We brainstorm so many ideas that it’s hard to pinpoint who wrote what. We constantly remind each other that it’s better to have something to edit than nothing at all then agree and move on, agree and move on.

Our first show together was a two person show called “This is Art.” It was created through another show that fell apart. We met after it fell apart and both agreed that we still wanted to do a show, so we decided we’d try a two person show. We booked the space before we wrote anything and created the show in only a few months. Both of us believe in working as hard as possible, which meant that we spent most of the waking day together running lines and editing scripts. Two weeks leading up to the show, we’d rehearse so much that she slept over more often than not. I remember looking at her, both of us exhausted to the point of physical pain, and saying “I’m happy that I really like you. Because if I didn’t really like you, there’s no way I would still like you after how much time we’ve spent together.”

Our show was very successful – our fears of not filling the house were soon replaced by the realization that we oversold and the bittersweet feeling of having to turn people away.

After the show, a lot of people asked us how we met, how we created the show and what we were going to do next… but my absolute favorite question was: Who wrote what?

We couldn’t answer that question. The show was such a collaboration between us and our director, Jay Sukow (the third member of this family) that we really couldn’t pinpoint who wrote which script. The other night, Sophia was over and we were talking about this. There were only two sketches in the entire show that we could attribute to one person. The rest were completely collaborative.

Sophia and I took a little “break” after our show (our breaks consist of her acting in a show that I was directing, starting our next show and applying for festivals) and she came over the other night to write for the first time in months. I remember the point where I opened my computer and we had to start a script. I was terrified and dreading it – starting is the hardest. If I were by myself, I’d be napping or watching Netflix. I’d convince myself that I could do it at a different time or that I deserved to watch Orange is the New Black. But with Sophia there, we just did it. We churned out two great first drafts in two hours because writing is lonely and difficult and hard but with the right partner, it becomes easier and you have someone to do it with.

I have no idea how we were able to find each other. But thank fucking God we did.

Look at how much I love her like a puppy and how cool and composed she is.

Cultivating a creative mind.

I spend most of my day thinking about The Lion King.

I sit next to a window and over the past month or so, they’ve been letting the grass grow to what I can only describe as “Lion King grass.” Every morning, I raise my fancy ergonomic desk to the stand position and imagine a chorus of “aaaahhhh zabenyaaaa” in my head. That’s the way my mind works.

I run into cubicles daily. I have bruises on my arms from routinely running into the shadow boxes that line my office’s walls. I dislocated my thumb by accidentally sitting on it at my desk. You see, my depth perception is depleted as I concentrate on more important things: narrating my life, creating character profiles of the people I pass, wishing I was Simba.

I have a creative brain. More specifically, a writer’s brain. Which means it never stops. Podcasts help keep it busy, but even then, I find myself writing down lines, phrases and words that I like. By the end of the day, the notebook I keep next to my keyboard is filled with quotes, titles and ideas.

Recently, I was reading a friend’s status about being an art teacher these days and it made me really, really depressed. She talked about how she’s at the bottom of the totem pole – deemed a privilege instead of a necessity. Schools are struggling to keep up with standardized tests and art electives are being replaced by additional test prep.

I would have never survived that type of atmosphere. I’ve always been smart, but not in a way that was reflected on a standardized test. My above average english and reading scores would make up for my below average math scores and at the end of the day, I was very average. I hated math and science. My mind just didn’t work that way and I found myself bored – staring out the window and making up lines to a story that didn’t yet exist.

However, my school, teachers and family understood the way my mind worked. And I didn’t go to any fancy bougie school. In fact, the school that I went was publicly exposed as a “failing school.”

This is what my “failing school” did for me:

– When I wasn’t challenged enough in my reading classes, I was pulled out of class and into a room with a few other students to learn at a pace that was more individualized and catered to me. Since I already knew how to read, it emphasized basic writing skills and encouraged me to journal. Our principal, who had ten thousand other things to worry about, took time out of his day to let me come into his office and read my latest installment of “Annie’s Life.”

– In kindergarten, my teacher took time out of class to let us make a band called “The Lion King Band.” Instead of going over the alphabet again and again and again, we practiced and would perform at school lunches, picnics, and assemblies.

– When I was in 4th and 5th grade, I was placed in All-City Orchestra, which was an orchestra composed of kids from different elementary schools that met and rehearsed at the middle school a couple hours every month. I’d be pulled out of math, my worst subject, to go to this without hesitation or opposition.

My parents were just as supportive. Instead of grilling me about my below average math skills, they let me just get by, understanding that I’d never be great at it. They encouraged me to try a little harder, but didn’t let the D that I got in science get in the way of celebrating the fact that I got the highest English score in my grade. Instead of forcing me to study for a subject I hated, they let me continue to write stories, poems, songs and movie scripts that would never get turned in. My mom let me drop trigonometry when I complained that the hours of homework were too much for something I didn’t care about. Instead, I took another study hour which I would spend in my theater teacher’s room rehearsing, discussing Broadway shows and coming up with new ideas. I took the math and science classes necessary to graduate, got the SAT score needed to get into the college I wanted to go to, but stopped there. Instead, I spent hours writing, reading, rehearsing and took four different english classes during my senior year.

While the STEM life is definitely for some people, it wasn’t for me. It was painfully boring for me to learn those disciplines. I didn’t think that way, nor was I interested in thinking that way. I went to school on the cusp of NCLB – narrowly escaping it’s impact on my school. My teachers weren’t very concerned about my inability to think further than the basic level when it came to math and science. They didn’t push me against my will to get better at them so that I could bring the school average up. They let me get by, didn’t dwell on my weaknesses, and instead celebrated my accomplishments in english and the arts. My teachers came to my plays, let me rehearse for talent shows during our down time, and let me learn individually when I was going a little faster than the rest of my class. There was nothing standardized about my education.

I wouldn’t be where I am today without that. I was given the advantage of following my passions and having a supportive atmosphere in which to do so. Art electives were deemed necessary to keep me functioning in school and “just getting by” in math and science was fine, because they knew that I didn’t have interest in either. My “failing school” was the perfect environment to grow up in and is a large part of the reason why I’m able to perform, write and follow what I love to do. There wasn’t a single person telling me that I couldn’t, or shouldn’t, seek a career in the arts.

Cultivating a creative mind doesn’t mean that you have to sacrifice education. It just means that you understand an individual’s limits and passions. You listen to them and what they love to learn about. Even with a “creative mind” that was raised in a “failing school”, I still graduated college with a dual degree and obtained full-time employment. And because the school I went to embraced all the facets that made my mind operate, I am able to write, create and perform at the same time.

Landing your dream job.

By my sophomore year in high school, I had it all figured out. I knew what I wanted to do in this world.

I wanted to be an English teacher. It made sense. My family was full of teachers, and since I was able to understand what words meant, I loved them. My parents always stuck by the phrase “it takes a village” and in my case, my village was composed of teachers. Ones who challenged me, championed me, ridiculed me and were there for me when life got difficult. It was a way to combine what I loved with my urge to give back what was graciously handed to me.

But then my aspirations shifted.

When I was seventeen, I moved from Connecticut to Chicago to go to DePaul University. I didn’t know a soul within a twelve hour radius of the city, but I was dead set on Chicago. I came there to make my dream come true – I wanted to be a comedian. As we unpacked my bags and stared out my window to the impeccable view of Chicago’s skyline that my Lincoln Park dorm offered, I got teary eyed. Everything in my life lined up to this moment. The television shows that I watched growing up, my years in theater, the divine intervention that happened which led to me visiting the set of SNL, my Second City camps, the fact that Elizabeth Perkins told me about DePaul on the same exact day that DePaul sent a letter to my house. It was destiny, and I was here. I was going to be a comedian.

But then my dreams changed.

As I met new friends, joined a sorority and changed my major as often as I changed my sheets (about twice a year), I soon forgot about comedy. It quickly became “that thing that got me here – isn’t it silly that I ever wanted that?!” as I fulfilled all the stereotypes, magic and blissful fun that came with being a college student.

I was a secondary education major for about three days until my academic advisor told me all about the tests, dates and classes that were pre-planned over the next four years, up until the date of my graduation. I ran from that office as fast as possible with my mom by my side supporting my decision to change my major before my first class even started and sympathizing with the fact that I didn’t want my life planned out quite yet. From there, I became a journalism major. I loved to write, so it made sense… until my first journalism class where I learned within a few minutes that journalism and creative writing are two completely different beasts. I spent the rest of the term learning about libel, writing obituaries, and counting the days until I could change my major again. I had no idea what I wanted to do. I decided to minor in political science just in case I wanted to try “that comedy thing” again. I thought it’d be smart to keep up with the news and the only way I could do that was to force myself to through school. I also settled on majoring in PR/Advertising after a conversation with my mom where I told her that I wanted “to do what LC from The Hills does”. During my sophomore year, I grew so fascinated with one of my professors, Dr. Khalil Marrar, that I decided to move my political science minor up to a major so I could reap the benefits of taking so many of his classes. I decided to be a lawyer – I loved debating, had a disposable metal database of supreme court decisions, and it seemed like a cool thing to do. With my life figured out, I started to study for the LSATS.

Except I never took them, because I changed my mind.

During my junior year of college, I got an internship with the Make-A-Wish Foundation. It was a dream internship – connection my love of kids (I had been a camp counselor for five years, after all…) with a cause that I feel strongly about. It also happened to be my sorority’s philanthropy. It was a dream internship and I loved every second of it. I got to help plan a major gala in Chicago, meet tremendous children and learned that I was a really good event planner. From there, I did event planning for the YMCA, our dance marathon and got heavily involved in non-profit work. By my senior year in college, I had my dream job all planned out. I wanted to be an event planner for a non-profit that I cared about.

After graduation, I got that dream job. I became an event planner at a non-profit that I had very close personal ties to. I did it! I was one of the few that graduated in a crappy economy but still managed to get my dream job. My job was “cool” (as determined by the standards set by my friends), I got to stay in Chicago and I was very proud of myself. I was able to help plan very cool events in a major city. What more could I want? I was also really good at my job. There wasn’t a moment where I doubted my ability to thrive in the event planning world. Perfect, right?

Except it wasn’t. After the allure wore off, I hated my job. It was stressful, took up my life and left me exhausted at the end of the day. As student loans piled on, the non-profit paycheck left with with only a few bucks to my name. I learned that a can of black beans and a bag of brown rice only cost $2.30 and lasted about four days, and I relied on leftover granola bars from our athletic events for breakfast. My boss was incredibly mean to me – yelling at me for no apparent reason. I rejoined, and was thriving in, the  comedy world – which only made me realize how miserable I was in my daily life. I came home sobbing to my roommates on multiple occasions, and had many conversations with my family about how awful my boss really got. As I got more and more into the comedy scene, it became impossible to balance my job with my comedy career. I was miserable.

So I took a leap. I left my “dream job” that used to warrant reactions like – “No way! That’s such a cool job!” for a job where most people’s first response is, “that seems really boring.” And it is. Blissfully boring, which means I can turn off my creative mind during the day and fully utilize it at night, when it matters. I left a “cool” job for one that treats me well, pays me fairly, and shoves me out of the door after a 40-hour work week.

Here’s the thing about dreams and aspirations: they change. Let them. Follow what feels right – our instincts are usually correct. Right now, I’m enjoying the bliss of thriving in the comedy world, and hope that I can live the rest of my life that way. It makes sense. But at the same time, I might find that I no longer want that, which is okay too.

When my dream job turned into a nightmare, I could have done one of two things. Either sulk in the loss and remain terrified of my dreams, fearful that they may not pan out, or think, “Well… that was the worst thing that could have happened, and it wasn’t that bad.”

Jim Carrey once said, “I hope everybody could get rich and famous and will have everything they ever dreamed of, so they will know that it’s not the answer.” and I couldn’t agree more.

What’s the answer?

I’m still figuring it out. Until then, I’ll continue to follow what I love and what scares me just enough to get out of bed in the morning.

The reality of dream chasing.

High highs and low lows. And a lot of mediocre days. That’s what you get when you chase a dream.

Mine is to make a career out of comedy. In what capacity? I’m not sure. Writing, acting, teaching, directing… not exactly sure what I’ll be doing. But I am sure that I’ll make it happen. Here’s the reality, good and bad.

You’re going to be very tired. All the time. If you don’t have a demanding day job, you probably have a kid that is demanding. Or friends to keep up with. We’re all busy. All the time. Which makes dating and keeping up with friends really, really hard. When you have a free night, you just want to sleep (and you probably should).

You’re going to have to compromise and be mediocre at some things. With me, it’s work. I have a natural competitiveness and strong work ethic embedded in me that makes me want to work to my full potential in everything I do. But the reality is that no human can over perform in every arena and you have to pick and choose what you put your energy into. I work hard and produce high quality work, but I don’t go above and beyond. If I did, I’d be exhausted by the time I got to rehearsal and that would compromise my ability to perform well during rehearsal or class. You have to prioritize.

Find these people: a mentor, someone to give advice to and a really good roommate. Not a day goes by where I’m not incredibly grateful for mentorship. Having someone who has been around in this community for years investing in you means that you have someone to help guide you through this crazy journey. They’ve been there and are ready and willing to help you get to where you want to be. Having someone who comes to you for advice is a good way for you to sort out your own thoughts. Chances are, you need to hear the advice you’re giving. As for the roommate? Priceless. My roommates have so much faith in me, which is needed. They’re also the only people who know how hard I work because they see me (or a lack of me) every single day, which means that when I come home exhausted (or crying) they’re there to let me vent.

You’re going to be up against your best friends. To put it in real world terms, imagine if you had to apply for a job against your best friends every single week. Not only that, but every interview is a group interview. It’s very bittersweet. At an audition, I feel incredibly supported and excited when my friends are there. I work better with them. But after the audition, you have to learn how to deal with not getting the job and having your friend get it, or getting the job and having your friend not get it. Both suck.

But you have to remember that none of it is about either of you. It’s about the auditors looking for the best fit. Which means that you have to remove any and all emotion about the audition from your friendship. And from the way you view yourself. Auditions aren’t a way to feel validated – good or bad. Realize that early and it’ll save you a lot of stress.

As you start to get things, you start to feel like an impostor. Who am I to do this? I never thought I’d be part of this community. I remember walking into Second City for my first class, seeing people chatting with each other and hanging out. I thought, “Wow, that’d be really cool.” I thought that I’d come and take my classes, be told that this wasn’t possible, and go home. Now, two years later, if I walk into any theater alone, there’s a 90% chance that I’ll know someone there to watch a show with. I love every bit of that, and adore every single friend I have, but a huge part of me is constantly asking myself who the hell I think I am. I don’t think that’ll ever go away, but I’ve learned to tell myself to shut up.

There will be two voices talking to you – your brain, and your feelings. For me, my brain is what keeps me going. When I feel like an impostor, my brain reminds me that I work really hard and deserve the benefits. When I feel untalented, my brain reminds me that I’m too hard on myself and forces me to look at my successes. When I feel like everything is impossible, my brain reminds me that I just have to take baby steps, to reflect on how far I’ve come. When I feel like I’ll never make a career out of this, my brain reassures me that this is what I’m meant to do. I talk to myself a lot.

You can’t let a theater or a group or a person dictate your worth as a performer. Again: You can’t let a theater or a group or a person dictate your worth as a performer. One more time: You can’t let a theater or a group or a person dictate your worth as a performer. Repeat this to yourself over and over again until you start to believe it. I do constantly. It was one of the first pieces of advice that Jay Sukow gave me. I was talking about how one of my improv teachers told me that physical comedy is a crutch when I was a teenager and it devastated me because it’s my favorite type of comedy. Want to know what he said? You can’t let a theater or a group or a person dictate your worth as a performer.

The best thing that ever happened to me along this journey was not getting into Second City’s conservatory after my first audition. It derailed me from this ‘traditional’ path that I was on. It taught me that there is no single way to go about this. After not getting in, I signed up for classes at iO, took workshops and went back to writing. I didn’t keep re-auditioning, because I honestly didn’t want to be in the program yet. I stopped caring so damn much about feeling validated as a performer, threw away my ego and started to learn from a place of wanting to improve instead of wanting to be validated. Then, one random day about a year later, I realized that I wanted to go through the program and signed up to audition. Throughout the course of a year, I learned that I have to create my own opportunities, and I did. When I auditioned, I was assistant directing a musical and writing a show. I no longer auditioned with this feeling of “I need this to be successful” and instead auditioned thinking “I’m ready for this. I’d love to learn and be in this program and I know I’m good enough for it… but if I don’t get in, look at all this other cool stuff that I’m doing.” And with the pressure to prove myself out of the way, I got in. I’m now able to go through the program without the fear of failure and with the eagerness to learn and grow. If I got in the first time, I’d just be terrified the entire time.

So yeah, this is hard. And tiring. And scary. And wonderful, rewarding, breathtaking, magical and absolutely insane.

But always remember, you’re chasing a dream. How fucking cool is that?

“Strong female [insert noun here]”

You’re a strong female improvisor. You’re a strong female writer. You write really strong female characters. And yada-yada-yada.

I hear those phrases constantly.

I know that people are trying to compliment me but I can’t help but hate that compliment. It’s not because I don’t think I’m a strong improvisor or writer, or because I’m ashamed of being female… I’m actually really proud of both things. I just hate when they make it into the same sentence.

Why? Because my gender and talent don’t correlate. Yes, some of my work is definitely influenced by my gender… but just as much is influenced by my career, age, income, family, education, interests and current mood.

Call me an improvisor. Call me a writer. Tell me my characters are strong.

Because when you don’t, you make me sound like a unicorn. Don’t get me wrong, I love unicorns. But unicorns either don’t exist or are very, very rare. 

Please stop telling me that writing female characters is hard. My skin cringes when I hear someone talking about how hard it is to write female characters. Not because I don’t recognize that there’s a problem… I do. I’m not going to lie and say that “strong female characters” are all over mainstream television. I get it. They’re not and you want us to be better than that. To strive for 3D characters. I get it.

But when you tell us that writing female characters is hard, and that it’s a rare talent to do so effectively, you make us feel like it’s an unattainable goal. A unicorn. Like it’s something else to put on the pile of “things I’ll never be good at”. Most beginners doubt themselves constantly, and when you tell us that something is hard, we’ll believe it. We’ll freak out and get anxious and doubt ourselves.

At the end of one of my writing classes, my teacher got up and said these exact words: “Today we had 22 male characters and 12 female characters. We want to create amazing opportunities for everyone and not have anyone be the default.” Then he dropped the mic, left class and drove away into the sunset… where we never saw him again.

Ok, not all of that was true. But he addressed this problem perfectly. If we’re not writing enough female characters, then tell us. But don’t tell us it’s hard to write them.

Here’s how I teach how to write “strong female” characters:

Write strong characters. Then cast some females into them.

I write characters that I would want to play. I try my best to ensure that no one is left out. My characters are almost always able to be played by either a male or female. We live in a world where we can have a female boss… or a male couple… or a stay at home dad in our work without making a huge statement.

So tell us to make every single character strong.

Also, stop telling us that female improvisors typically don’t make strong choices. Most novice improvisers don’t make strong choices. It’s not just a female thing. When you tell me that it’s a female thing, I see it as this obstacle that I’ll never be able to overcome because of my gender. I know you want to prepare us for what stigma people may have about female improvisors, but honestly, you just make me feel like I have no chance because no matter what I do, people will hold that stigma against me. Just tell me to be a stronger improvisor.

I had a teacher address this issue in a much more constructive way. During one of our first classes, I was having trouble getting my voice heard during a group scene. Anyone who has ever improvised with me knows that I’m not someone who typically has this problem. I tend to do the opposite too much… I can be overbearing or too physical. However, he pointed out the fact that I’m a lot shorter than everyone else I was sharing the stage with. Looking around me, I noticed the physical difference. I was improvising with a bunch of tall people with broad shoulders. I didn’t know how to make myself heard. By pointing out the physical differences between me and everyone else, he explained that I’m always going to have to be a little more physical and try a little harder to be heard. If he told me that this problem was because of my gender alone, I would have stopped listening. It wasn’t a gender thing, it was a physical thing.

I was having trouble because I’m short, not because I’m a woman.

So please, call me an improvisor. Call me a writer. Tell me I write strong characters. 

Keep my gender out of it.

On being nice.

I don’t like to surround myself with assholes. But sometimes they find their way into my life.

I always say that it’s not that hard to be nice. Here’s what I mean…

To me, being nice is an immediate reaction. It’s as simple as smiling back at someone, or even just biting your tongue when you really want to harm someone. It’s that split second right before you’re about to use hurtful words. That moment when you stop yourself and ask if it’s worth it. Is it really worth losing your character for a temporary sting towards someone who probably doesn’t really matter at the end of the day? Or should you just be nice?

Over the past few weeks, several people attempted to attack me, or my friends, because of opinion pieces that I wrote or shared. I thought that they were quite universal – men shouldn’t assault women, cops shouldn’t shoot black teenagers and comedians shouldn’t put on overly offensive sets talking about how they want to physically hurt women. Apparently these stances aren’t universal.

I was called a sexist, a bitch and an idiot. People told me that I was uneducated, overly sensitive and naive. As a victim of sexual assault, I was told that I didn’t understand sexual assault and as a comedian, I was told that I didn’t understand comedy. I was told that I had no right to speak from the point of view of a woman (uh, I have a vagina. What other point of view should I use…?) and that I was a racist (against my own race…?) who hated cops. I was even told to stop shoving food in my face and get on a treadmill by someone who I’ve never met (because the fact that I eat inevitably equates to… wait, what?)

I wish I could tell you that I read these comments and immediately brushed them off. But if I’m anything, I’m honest. And I’ll be honest – they hurt. Within ten minutes of reading a comment targeting my physical appearance, I was in the bathroom staring at the mirror… completely self-conscious about my looks. At lunch, I didn’t put feta on my quinoa because I realized that I needed to be more serious about my already pretty serious diet (and guys, lets be honest …I really deserved that feta today). After seeing that people were defending the comedian that I disagreed with, I started to doubt whether or not I wanted to stay in comedy. Maybe I didn’t understand it… maybe I was being too sensitive… maybe I’m just not cut out for it. After being called a sexist, I wanted to call up every man in my life that I love to make sure that they know that I’m not sexist. I wanted to tell any boy that I’m even slightly attracted to that he shouldn’t worry! I LOVE MEN! DON’T HATE ME!

So, yeah… I’m human. I still have emotions.

More than anything, I wanted to strike back. I wanted to spit in their face and insult them right back. Call them stupid or sexist or racist. Shove all the good that I have in life right into their face, and say “SEE! LOOK AT EVERYTHING I HAVE GOING FOR ME!!! WHAT DO YOU HAVE, FUCKER?!” Share posts from my blog where I talk about my emotions and vulnerability to show them that I’m a fucking human being.

But I let my own words echo in my head – it’s not that hard to be nice. It’s not that hard to be nice. Ironically, before any of this went down, I posted that phrase on my Facebook just in response to everyone having such heated debates over the horrid state of the world these days. I had no idea how much it would help me later on.

I waited before responding… really thought out what I wanted my message to be. Words from my grandma echoed through my ears – “Never put anything in writing that could potentially be used as evidence against your character”. I use that in regards to speech as well. At the end of the day, no one should be relieved when I die (I know, super bright thought. Whatever keeps me grounded, right?)

Instead of spitting out my gym regime to someone who made a fat joke, I told her that she’s right… I hate running. Good joke, you really figured me out. I’d much rather write than run… I’d much rather make people laugh and feel good than hurt them. Then I left her with some advice from my post – don’t be that person using comedy to hurt someone. You could be so much funnier than that.

So, here’s how to be nice… take a step back and simply remind yourself to be nice. Yes, it is really that easy. Consider the source – does the person who is trying to hurt you really matter in the long run? Am I going to let some random person from the internet insult my worth as a comedian instead of listening to the dozens of others in the comedy world who encourage me? No. Instead I’ll just be nice.

Only thirty minutes after saying my piece, I leveled out. I realized that I didn’t give a flying fuck what some random person thought of me. I was no longer angry or defensive or insulted. And because I didn’t write anything back that attacked anyone, I didn’t regret a single word I said.

Being nice is biting your tongue when you would much rather punch someone in the face.

Being kind, on the other hand, is a lifestyle. More on that to come…