Build a better metaphor

I had a moment of synchronicity last night when I was watching Mtv's "The Hills" when Audrina said, "I just don't like who I've become. I don't even know who I am anymore." I laughed at first because claims of "not knowing myself" always seem like empty ploys to garner pity from others and to deflect fault from one’s self for the state of unhappiness. Nevertheless, it came to my attention that I have been feeling the same way. It's totally one of those David Byrne moments where I am thinking, “how did I get here” and I am just not sure how to work this. If it wasn't for ‘this’ or ‘that’ I might garnish more of my time with champagne and indie films in small theaters that smell of old cigarettes and hairspray and popcorn mingling with the faintest perfume of a curry someone has snuck in. But what would we be without wishful thinking?

But enough of the bad. I have been writing comedy. I bought some index cards and I tell myself I have to fill up one a day. It's a manageable task. And while it may seem small, it's better than rarely filling up two notebook pages of material. I should get my license back in a couple weeks and then I will be trying out my awesomely terrible material in LA. Sometimes I feel like my material is really bad, but it seems like I do best around strangers. For instance, I had some strangers at the DMV rolling about doing a whiskey bong and having a homeless hold the funnel for me. The whiskey bong does not sound funny on paper, at least not to me. But you had to be there. And that’s a hallmark of mine: feeding off a crowd of people and their expectations. “Here we are now, entertain us” is how I think of most strangers. They’re not really asking to be entertained, but I want them to be. Perhaps “here I am now, allow me to entertain you” is a better way of putting it.

I am trying to have patience. I have a plan. I can see the future unfolding before me and it is methodical; it is encumbered by its vices: it is prevailing despite them before the alt(a)(e)r of its humanity. Like grass growing in the brick crags of vacant office space, I offer myself up in part to chance and to the sun; to the mettle of my minerals (found and forgetting); to evening and to Death, who is waiting in every shadow: reveling likewise in our every laugh.

Love y'all,

The Anthonynaut