This was hard to write, but I had to get it out there.

I tried starting this blog post two nights ago, but have been struggling with the writing process... Not because I've had writers' block, but simply because it's something I don't like that I have to write about.

I've been really, ridiculously blessed in the past few months. Since January, my life has changed in so many ways, each and every single one of them for the better. A new job, new friendships, shifts in my clarity of purpose and where I see myself going with my life? It's incredible. I can't tell you how many times I've had to stop myself lately to just take in the good things that have finally come my way.

That "finally" up there. That's where this post is coming from and why it's so hard to get out.

A local young teenager, who was openly gay and involved with numerous school activities, took his own life on Tuesday night. I didn't know Jesse, but he was friends with many people I've worked with in local theater. I don't know any of the specifics leading up to his decision - he's the only one who truly does - and I don't need to. His story, at least what I know of it, is not much different from many other tragedies that so many people are forced to deal with. 

The sadness, the what-if's, the questions... they're exhausting and only lead to more sadness and confusion. While I could wax rhapsodic on the horrible topic, I really need to get my story out, in hopes that it might offer some help to someone who may be struggling themselves. 

When I was 10 years old, my entire grade school class turned against me and my best friend, quite literally overnight. It was an early spring day, one of those first nice ones of the season, and we were enjoying our first outdoor recess of the year. I was never the athletic type (some things never change) and the previous winter, the girl who had been my best friend discovered that she loved soccer. I wasn't resentful toward her for it, but, being a kid, I was a little hurt. Thankfully, one of our other friends at the time stepped up - we're actually still friends today. Anyway. That day at recess, my entire class was running around on the soccer field and my best friend and I just weren't feeling it. We were just sort of wandering around in the tiny patch of woods at the edge of the field - y'know, standard kid stuff. And then, out of nowhere, some girls ran up and threw a shower of those seed "helicopters" that fall from pin oaks all over us... while singing the Wedding March. Haha, stupid childish fooling around. Right?

The following school day is a blur of choking back tears and telling people to just shut up and leave me alone, but I remember going home that night and asking my mother what a lesbian was, because some of the kids in school had decided to start calling us that. I was a naive 10, not the kind of 10-year-old that runs around with an iPhone today. I had never heard such a word and had never imagined kissing a boy yet, much less, a girl.

This tormenting went on through the rest of my elementary school years, and, at times, carried into high school. I filled diary after diary with "I hate my life" and "No one loves me" and wished for a different life for myself. I'm thankful that I went through what I had to, though.

Looking back on those years is really hard for me, but I've been able to realize some very important things because of them. I realized, most importantly, that what I had been so hurt about was not the fact that my classmates were spreading rumors that I was into women. What hurt was that, just because I ran with a different crowd and was into things like comedy, history and Girl Scouts, instead of sports and boys, my classmates pegged me with what they thought was the worst insult they could come up with. I knew that I was straight but trying to argue that to pre-teens when you haven't so much as held hands with a boy yet is a damn near impossible task. 

Eighth grade brought a new challenge to me because for the first time since fourth grade, my best friend and I were in different homerooms and had to take some classes separately. Plus, I still had never kissed a boy (I wouldn't until I was nearly 17), my parents were strict as ever and I had managed to hit a pretty consistent low after spending now four years dealing with the same old crap. When I think back on going through all of this, it's usually fourth grade and that day at recess that comes to mind as the lowest point, but truthfully, my lowest lows were definitely eighth grade. 

And then, by some stroke of grace, I discovered things. My passions. And people who liked the same things I did.

One of the perks of being an eighth grader at my elementary school was getting first pick of elective classes - 15 or so special-interest courses that let you learn new things while flaunting your seniority over the rest of the school. Most people rushed to fill the dance and kindergarten-helper sections, but I meandered my way over to things like crafts and newspaper writing. We had one crappy old Macintosh computer in our classroom, and the four of us (who actually chose to do MORE writing than required in our standard classes) slaved over our little paper. The stories that I wrote that semester weren't Pulitzer-worthy, by ANY means (I'm just about positive one was about my dog), but I had finally found something that gave me a sense of fulfillment. 

Outside of school, I was just starting to get into theater. I was in one show a year in sixth and seventh grades and when eighth grade started, the first theater group I worked with really hit its stride. That spring, I started forging friendships with some of the "adult" cast members and while our relationships have changed over the years, those are the people who helped make me into the outgoing person I am today.

Even with the people and outlets I had finally begun to find for myself, I still had to go to school. And school was a terribly lonely place. Feeling alone is not something I would wish on my worst enemy. For someone as naturally extroverted as myself, it was particularly jarring. I'm not always the best at articulating my deep feelings (see: Liz Lemon: "I am terrible at expressing my feelings, but it's not because I don't have them. It's just because I'm used to being let down."), so not having people around me I felt comfortable with was extremely difficult. Being an actress and all, I was awfully good at putting on a front for my classmates, but really, a huge portion of my junior high years were spent somewhere in my mind. 

I don't know what you, reading this, have gone through. I genuinely hope that you have never had to feel alone. If you do right now, and you need someone, anyone, please know that I am here, in whatever capacity you need. It's okay to feel weak or useless or stretched too thin. It's not okay to feel like you are the only one feeling like that, or like you have no one to go to for a bit of relief. There is always someone. 

I also hope that you have something you can call your own. When I was writing and acting back then, I didn't truly realize what I was doing for myself. Truth be told, I was saving my own life, one rehearsal at a time. My memories of those years are not what most people have - birthday parties with classmates, boy/girl parties and what have you - mine are conversations and experiences and moments of feelings that mean more to me than I'll ever be able to explain.

I guess what I'm trying to say here, for whoever is reading this... is that life is what you make of it. It would have been so easy, so many times over, for me to just give up. I'm not going to bore you any more with anecdotes of how shitty some of high school was for me (I often forget about those times because the second half was so good), but keep in mind that everything I detailed here was not an isolated event. I'm weird, I'm into strange things, I get it. But I've finally grown very comfortable with who I am and what I have to offer and that is why I am sharing this.

For as confident as I am today, I still have moments of severe weakness. That's never going to go away - I don't expect it to - but it's scary when it happens. Those pin oak helicopters are covering my yard as I type this, and looking at them makes me inwardly cringe. A simple sentence can trigger my mood and force me to fall onto my bed in a fit of tears. But for every one of those terrible nights? There are 10 really awesome evenings. The number of kids in my grade school class pales in comparison to the army of sorts that's formed around me. The worst mood one night is followed by an absolutely beautiful morning. The people who are around you for all the mundane crap of your life suddenly become surprising and funny and smart and you can't imagine your life without them in it. 

Life is beautiful and I am so, so thankful that I found my way through it. I hope, so sincerely, that you never ever lose the will to find those beautiful moments for yourself.

A very serious, open, honest look into my faith life. Just... I'm happy. Finally.

I know that over the last year or so, I have made decisions that have hurt people around me. I know that friendships have changed or ended, and that those situations were almost entirely due to me. I knew that while all of it was going on and, quite honestly, I do not regret one decision.

For the first time in my life, I can confidently say that I am happy.

I'm not talking about the wonderful, euphoric feeling that accompanied every praise band concert and party and night out. Those memories are so beautiful and I know that I would not have gotten through the last eight years without them.

The happiness that I am experiencing right now, though, is deeper and more grounded than that.

There's also sadness blended with the happiness, which I've found to be important and a blessing. My life has not been easy so far. I was ridiculed in grade school, unpopular in high school and then had my world turned upside down in college. I've had financial issues, my extended family has all but fallen apart and I've watched so many people around me face pain and suffering.

And, even with all of that against me... I've been able to keep going. I can't take that fact lightly because, quite frankly, it would have been so easy, so many times, for me to have called it quits and given up. Instead, I allowed myself to grow comfortable. I was coasting along in my faith and not giving any room for myself to struggle and admit weakness. It's so much easier to do that.

The last six or so months have been a different sort of struggle, however. Things in my day-to-day life have all but fallen into place. I have a reliable job with coworkers I like. I spend the rest of my time with a theater group and youth group full of really awesome, talented people. There are so many things to keep me busy and happy. But, truthfully, I've been so genuinely unhappy underneath the surface.

Until a very important friend had a conversion experience. And I saw in him the exact pain I've been carrying. And I was able to have conversations with him that I've never been able to have with other people. And, because of him, I became more aware of my own faith journey and how poorly neglected it had become. I was letting my faith sit on a back burner because, in my head, it had gotten me to where I needed to be - a comfy job and cool people around me. And I didn't realize it until this weekend, but doing that was slowly eating away at me.

The changes I've made in my life over the past year were all the necessary steps I had to take to get to where I am tonight. I had been going through the motions those last few months that I was in the praise band and that was wrecking me, which I haven't been able to realize until now. It's why I had to quit. It's why I had to give everything I had in me to the theater kids. If I hadn't, they wouldn't have opened up to me and, in turn, I wouldn't have been able to learn all this about myself.

I'm still not entirely sure what my true purpose is in the great scheme of things. I've always gravitated toward written word and have been encouraged again and again to write my story so that maybe, someone else who is struggling will be able to relate and find someone to guide them through everything. If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that I can't do this alone. Hopefully, this blog will allow me to begin to accomplish something like that.

Thunderstorms and theater and NYC, because I can't blog on just one topic.

I was always the token kid who sobbed through thunderstorms. I was at a Girl Scout overnighter an hour away and actually made my mom come pick me up because I could hear it storming. I left sleepovers all the time if it stormed. The hottest summer night saw me burrowed under piles of blankets at the very first crack of thunder.

That fear has since translated into straight fascination, thankfully.

I'm still deathly afraid of them, however. I think all of the things you do in life, the things that you really love, should scare you a little. The adrenaline that comes with just a little bit of uneasiness makes things come off as so much more rewarding, right? It's why I kept coming back to theater. Those first auditions I went through were terrible and quite honestly, I wouldn't have cast myself if I was the one in that position. But, god, the rush of opening night, especially the first few... nothing will ever compare to that feeling.

Not going all scientific on this blog (LOL IT'S FUNNY BECAUSE I KNOW LITERALLY NOTHING ABOUT SCIENCE THINGS), but I know that there's a gene or whatever in our brains that makes us thrill-seekers, to varying extents. I'm not big on roller coasters or thrill rides, but I love that rush that I talked about in a previous post, the one that comes right before a perfomance begins. Like I said in that post, more than half of that is straight-up fear that I am going to fall flat on my face as soon as the show starts. Eh, it's happened before.

This whole feeling also ties into my doing everything I can to avoid settling here in Erie. It'd be the easy thing to do. I have a comfortable job, my living situation isn't bad and I have a great support system of friends and the theater community. But... NYC looming in my future is deliciously terrifying. Sure, I know a lot of people in the city and know the basics I'll need to for day-to-day life. I'm also lucky enough to have a job that will allow me to move, instead of just winging it when I get out there. Regardless, the anxiety dreams I have over things that I won't even need to worry about for a year and a half are out of control.

I love them.

I love the thunderstorm that is currently rattling my windows. I love having something to worry about. I love the relief when the storm passes and the world is shiny and new.

A long post in which I talk about big, important issues? Okay, then...

I am Catholic. I am also a pro-life feminist who fully supports every agenda in LGBT equality.

I've had to bite my tongue so many times in the past several years, especially this last week.

Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr have been full of opposing opinions and through them all, one thread has remained frighteningly clear -- the amount of closed-mindedness from both sides of the gay marriage issue is absolutely insane.

Let's tackle that first line in this post, piece by piece, shall we?

I almost wish I had been keeping track of how many posts I've seen in the past few days that have put down the entire notion of Catholicism (and Christianity - and even religion/the concept of god as a whole, but I'm going to focus on my belief system here). It's a truly comical number, especially coming from people who claim to be open and accepting. I have been brought up to know that believing in something bigger than yourself does not make you naive.

I have struggled with my faith more in the past several years than I had ever expected to as a kid. Sure, I grew up in a tight-knit family (that wasn't perfect, by any means) and my mom always ensured that I went to mass every Sunday. That's great and all but doesn't mean that I think I have had an easy path. I have fought with myself and the teachings that I studied in college. I have truly hated and resented the rules and politics of the church. Through that struggle, I could have taken two paths. I could have said "Eh, screw it," and walked away from everything. I've come VERY close to doing that, many times -- one time, in fact, while I was in the midst of a four-day retreat. Yeah, not the best time to have life-altering revelations about yourself.

For whatever reason that I truly cannot explain, something inside me has kept me going and, time after time, life proves to me that I am doing this life thing right. FOR MYSELF. I genuinely have no idea if what I have put my faith in is the "right" thing to believe in. I don't like the idea of one concept of god and a bigger reality being the only possible explanation. There's more than one way to approach every possible situation in life, so why should that be any different in whatever is out there that is bigger than us? What I've found as my comfort and my source of hope has worked for me, though, and I'm happy with that.

Let me again emphasize that what I believe in - rather traditional ideas of Catholicism - is what I have found for myself. Me. Not my friends. Not my country. I got into a pretty heated thing on Twitter over the fact that while America was founded with the idea of religious freedom in mind (my point in the argument), the ideas that our founding fathers had were generally pretty Christian (other person's point). Right. The people who founded our country did have some religious backgrounds. But they gave the people who live here the freedom to find what they believe in for themselves, with the security of no persecution.

I guess this is where my stance on the abortion issue can come in. This is something that I rarely talk about, even though I have been pretty active in the local and national pro-life scene. I do not think abortion itself is a religious issue. My small amount of work in journalism has given me good practice in being able to separate not only myself from issues, but also layers within issues. When I look at the research that has been done on BOTH sides of the topic (see that magic word? Yeah. It means that I'm not closed-minded and actually care about what everyone has to say. Some people really need to try that out sometimes), one thing always jumps out at me. I can't ignore it. That is a baby in there. It's a little tiny human person, that has the potential for so much.

I know that I put a lot of faith in people - more than is often due - but when you are truly an optimist, it's what you do. It's not a religious truth for me and it's not something to be debated politically. It's a person that should not have to die. I understand medical complications that some women face and pregnancy due to terrible circumstances. I get that. I have seen firsthand the heartbreaking decisions that women have had to go through.

But I believe women are a lot stronger than we receive credit for. The feminist umbrella that I identify myself as falling under rests in that. Women are wicked strong. We have to put up with insane emotional struggles while attempting to look like we have it all together and still somehow be sexy and funny and smart. For as much progress as we have made for our rights, we are still seen as the weaker, submissive gender.

Throw the "Exactly, that's why I'm pro-choice and it's my body, I can do what I want with it, that'll show them" argument at me. I've heard it more times than you can believe. But like I said... I believe in the goodness of people, first and foremost. I also have experienced, so many times, the weird simple fact that life works out. I would say that it works itself out, but, y'know, Catholic upbringing, there's something bigger than us, yadda yadda. I'm not saying it's easier to just go through with a pregnancy, at all. But struggles are a necessary part of life. They give you opportunities to grow as a person and in your faith and maybe someday, people will realize why they have gone through the things they have.

I really don't want this to become my "Why I'm pro-life" blog post, and I've already gone on for too long. But that whole issue has been bubbling just below the surface and it does have some part to play in this entirely ridiculous debate that has taken over the internet this week.

So, changing gears...

GAY PEOPLE ARE JUST REGULAR PEOPLE. There is nothing weird or wrong with their genetic makeup. I genuinely do not understand how there are still people in today's world who think otherwise.

That being said. What the HELL is the church's problem with gay families? My favorite argument to combat this is that is truly impossible for a gay couple to have a child they do not want. You show me one gay couple that is attempting to adopt a child and facing loophole after loophole, and I will show you twenty straight parents who resent their children and the changes they brought to their lives. There is not one child in a gay household who is not wanted there.

The issue that has come up in the past few days is bigger than that, though. It also goes back to some of the other points I've already attempted to make.

The USA is not a Catholic country. And marriage is not a Catholic concept. Yes, in Jesus' time, there was a shift in what marriage meant to people who were a part of the church, but people had been joining together for centuries before that, in every possible culture. Why are so many people using the Catholic church's view on gay marriage as the be-all and end-all for the debate? You don't have to get married in the Catholic church if you don't want to, so don't try and make every possible couple get married in one. Trying to sweep every pairing under the church's umbrella and weed out the non-nuclear families is insane.

That's why we are so lucky to be Americans. We live somewhere that ensures that, no matter what we believe, we can believe it. Why are so many Catholics so butthurt, then, that our politicians are attempting to ensure that equality for all sexual orientations? In nearly any other country in the world, we could be shot, simply for walking into church. It's a freedom that I know we take for granted and there is absolutely no reason why we should attempt to take any amount of freedom from ANYONE else.

The people asking for marriage equality are not asking the Catholic church for anything. They are asking the government to recognize their unions with the same respect that straight couples get. I understand that, in many cases, it can be argued that the people against gay marriage are simply expressing their same right to their own opinions... but it's bigger than that. The basic rights of a person to have their love recognized by their community should not be up for debate. It's fine to not agree, personally, with something. But a right like love should not be thwarted by religion.

Look, I get that I am not your perfect Catholic person and that because of the way our society looks at things, that's what people see and think about me first. But I am doing the best I can for myself, while being aware of the people around me and their needs. It's how I'm able to sleep at night and that's really all I can wish for myself.

I also don't know if this post means anything to anyone besides me, or if it is just a genuine mess of words that you may have skimmed or angrily read. I don't care. Everyone has been expressing their right to freedom of speech in the past few days, and it was time for me to do the same.

This isn't a creepy blog post about Steve Martin (except it totally is)

When I was a super headstrong 8 or 9 year old, I remember spending the better part of a summer afternoon trying to reason with my dad. The battle this time? Could I please, PRETTY PLEASE be allowed to walk the three blocks up to the local playground without adult supervision? All of my friends were doing it and besides, I knew the last thing my dad wanted to do was stop cheering on the Indians to accompany me. He wasn't having it, though. In an attempt to distract me from my argument, he yelled "LOOK OUT! I'M GETTING... HAPPY FEET!!!" and proceeded to stomp around the kitchen like a lunatic. Unfortunately, his impression worked and I forgot that going to the playground alone was a pressing issue.

King Tut and Grandmother's Song were as much a part of the soundtrack of my childhood as any other "normal" music. Of course, I grew up listening to 50s standards and early Whitney Houston, so I'm not one to base normal off of, but go with me here. There was also a phase for about five or 15 years where my dad would not open a door without pretending to run into it, nose-first, the way Steve does in Roxanne.

My childhood Christmases were magical escapes from the rigid rules of my ordinary life. My half brothers would come roaring into town, bringing with each of them an unyielding love of comedy that was only rivaled by my father's. They would let me watch shows like The Simpsons with them and, if we were lucky enough that my mom worked, I'd be allowed to stay up for that week's Saturday Night Live cold open and monologue. I was too young to really understand the jokes, but I saw how captivated and happy my dad and brothers were, and it made me happy. The three of them took great joy in annoying my mom with impromptu (and constant) performances of classic routines like Who's On First? and What the Hell is That?

When I was an even more headstrong 15 year old, my parents left me alone for an entire weekend for the first time. It was tradition -- for their anniversary, they would go to Buffalo and Niagara Falls for a weekend every summer, but this was the first time I didn't have to stay over at my aunt and uncle's. That Sunday morning, I found Father of the Bride on TV. My dad called me from their hotel room to see how I was doing... and he quickly realized we were both watching Steve Martin have a breakdown over hot dog buns. We spent a half hour on the phone together, laughing and eventually crying over the movie.

It was around then that I started discovering comedy for myself. I wasn't terribly popular in high school, so my Saturday evenings were typically spent watching the two-hour block of British comedies that the local PBS affiliate aired, followed by, once again, sneaking around to stay up late enough for at least the SNL monologues (whoa, look out, we got a real wild child on our hands). I was also lucky enough to find a best friend who was as, if not more, into comedy as I was becoming. The geeks of Freaks and Geeks getting together to listen to worn comedy albums? Yeah, that sort of thing.

When I was 19, my dad turned my world upside down. I had been coasting along, as naive and happy as I could manage, and was enjoying college and the beginnings of adulthood. Then, I was forced to grow up, FAR faster than anyone had anticipated. A few days after everything happened with my dad, my best friend checked up on me. I'd seen a huge outpouring of love and support from all sorts of people in my life, which meant the world, but she was the only person to really understood what it would take to help me keep going. She didn't force me to dwell on the new issues that had become my norm and instead we laughed over some cheesy old jokes.

The past six years have not been easy on me. I've had to deal with family issues that I would not wish on my worst enemies and, while I've had some incredible experiences and finally feel comfortable with myself, I also hit some really terrible lows. Luckily, I've been able to get through this mess with one simple thing -- laughter. A lovely side-effect from that drastic change was bouts of insomnia which, at the very least, allowed me to regularly stay up to watch SNL. The first episode that was new after that awful night was Tina Fey's season 33 hosting gig, that included an infamous Steve Martin cameo.

That brief appearance sparked something in me. I had been a bit wary of how to proceed with my relationship with my dad around that time, but being able to laugh at someone he idolized was freeing -- plus, for the first time, I was old enough to really understand his humor.

I've spent the past four or so years becoming an absolute comedy sponge. My sense of humor has very closely followed my dad's -- if it involves a former or current SNL cast member, Monty Python or George Carlin, I'm in. Thanks to Netflix and Pandora, I've seen/heard everything ever done by those three; it took over eight months, but I've watched every episode of SNL.

Above and beyond all that (brilliant) comedy, Steve Martin has remained in a special category of his own. Somewhere along my course of buying every DVD I could get my hands on (did you know that Walmart has 5-movie collections for $5?!), I finally discovered for myself the beauty that is Steve Martin, the author and Steve Martin, the musician.

It was nearly exactly two years ago when the news broke that Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers would be doing a concert in Chautauqua. The night before I ordered my ticket, my dad called me -- at this point, I hadn't actually seen him in about three years at this time -- and told me that when he was younger, all he wanted to do was see Steve Martin play banjo because he had heard he was really good. That did me in.

I've rehashed the story of seeing Steve Martin, in person, numerous times, but as far as the condensed version goes... I spent the entire day creeping outside the amphitheater and honestly was happy enough  just eavesdropping on sound check (Steve yelled that us people watching should have paid big money for the candid show we got to see). A few (sunburnt) hours before the doors were set to open, a regular at Chautauqua approached me because he liked my shoes (???). After a quick conversation, he guided me to a handicapped entrance that he promised would not disappoint me. I protested at first -- like I said, just seeing soundcheck was more than enough for me and I would have been thrilled with any seat in the theater. After briefly telling the other people waiting at that entrance about my ~history~ with Steve, however, they all agreed to give me the front of the line. I didn't quite realize at the time that this meant I was literally the FIRST person to walk into the amphitheater... and my ticket wound up being for the front row. On July 1, 2011, I was front row, dead center, for Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers. The entire concert was incredible and hilarious, but there were a few moments that remain clear as day for me.

At one point, the Rangers left the stage, leaving Steve and his banjo. He took off his picks and explained how there are two styles of banjo-playing -- the happy twangy mess that most people associate with the instrument, and a more melancholy sound that he prefers. The song he played was instrumental and haunting... and I quietly cried through the entire thing. In those few moments, it felt like all the weight I had been carrying since everything happened with my dad was lifted up and away as the breeze moved through the amphitheater. I've never felt so free in my life.

I had heard that Steve and the Rangers had been performing King Tut as a second encore at about half of their concerts on that tour, and obviously was hoping like mad that they would choose to there. The second I heard that ridiculous Egyptian intro, I burst into really stupid, ugly tears. I noticed most of the guys onstage (including Steve, which is kind of embarrassing, but whatever) give me a Look... I guess that's not the typical reaction to a stupid song about Pharaoh? Seeing that song performed live -- stupid dance moves included -- made the night as close to perfect for me as it could have gotten. The only thing that would have possibly made it better would have been if my dad had been able to be there with me.

I realize that I have your cliche "daddy issues." It's a dumb phrase that I've hated my entire life and never realized I could apply to myself until quite recently. I also, thankfully, realize that all these ~feelings~ I'm attempting to unload aren't me trying to fill some void my father left with Steve Martin. That's crazy and stalker-ish and what 99% of the people I hate on Tumblr do with their various favorite people. What I will say, however, is that through his work, Steve Martin has given me so many ways to cope with the shit that life throws my way. Thanks to his crazy genius, I can escape in a movie, book or music, whenever I need to -- and I can know for sure that the quality of that work is going to be really, really good.

My dad wouldn't have raised me as a fan if that wasn't the case.

I poem-ed? Minimally?

The snowy sky
yellows
as the sun
fades,

as though to steal
the light
and selfishly
pour it into snow.

A yellow grin
full of sparkling
snow-white teeth -
the drifts
that dot the landscape.

I don't know if this is anything or not, but it just popped into my head as I sat here, looking outside, and I'm trying to embrace ANY sort of inspiration I find since I am attempting to knock out this writers' block that has stayed with me for over two years now. Thoughts?

Someday, I won't write "Someday, I'll write" posts here. This isn't that day.

I would very much like to get back to where I was, as a writer, three years ago. In 2010, I was writing for nearly all of my courses - creatively, academically and for the school paper. I miss that. I miss sitting down with the computer I had at the time (a hand-me-down Mac that had a hard drive smaller than my current phone's) and watching the ideas in my head become page after page in Word.

The past three years have seen so many changes in my life, and now that I'm in a much more comfortable place, I sincerely hope I will be able to break out of the severe writers' block that waltzed in pretty much the day I received my diploma.

This post is due very much to the fact that I just got rid of the computer that I had since 2001. It was the second computer I ever had (the first being an ancient Mac that had all these games that I don't think existed after 1992) and it served me well through high school and college... except for those times when it crashed and I had to re-install everything (30+ times, I've counted), or when the original monitor (that was about 15 inches deep) decided to invert every color, or when the mouse stopped working unless you slammed it on the desk, or...

Okay, okay, the computer sucked. Kelly and Teresa can attest to that - I apologize for all those slumber parties where they were forced to endure its testy ways just to IM people. Plus, the mess of wires that were required for the 12-year-old technology were caked in dust and resided just in front of the heater vent in this room. Let's be real here, I'm surprised that my room hasn't blown up because of that damn mass of electronics.

But that computer, heap of junk as it became, saw me through my most formative years. I wasn't the ~popular kid~ in 8th grade or high school, so I spent the majority of my free time parked in this very spot, screwing around on DiaryLand and LiveJournal and Moulin Rouge message boards (...was my lack of popularity my fault?!). I wrote all the angst-ridden emails I could from that bad boy, and when I finally came to my senses in college, I translated that angst into really awesome term papers, poems and news stories.

And then I graduated.

And everything came screeching to a halt.

I honestly can't tell you how many times I left the cursor blinking in Word for hours on end because for as much as I wanted to write another poem or blog, not one bit of inspiration struck. I think I've gotten out a grand total of two poems in three years, and there aren't even 20 posts on this blog yet. I know I know. Quality, not quantity in writing. But to not even get out shitty work? That makes me sad.

I'm getting a new computer this month - that's what prompted me to throw away the old desktop, once and for all. I'm finally back at my desk since my little laptop finally has a home there. I'm also busier than I have been in a long time, but that's where I thrive. Here's hoping the changes that life has thrown at me will lend themselves to a creative rebirth!

Warning on lights one... and... GO.

This production of Children of Eden marks show number 41 for me -- including both performing and stage crew-ing. In all of those shows, there's been one common thread.

After all the excitement and emotions of green room, there is one moment that keeps me coming back to theater. The 30 seconds or so where I am in my place for the beginning of act one, waiting for the cue from the light board or orchestra to begin, is simultaneously the most thrilling and terrifying moment of my life.

It's dark.

15 years of acting and 10 years of stage managing has, thankfully, blessed me with night vision that frightens my mother. I can navigate any stage you put me on, in pitch-black, pick up five of those godforsaken brown stools we've used every show for the past three years at once and get offstage in five seconds. No sweat.

The darkness before a show begins, though, holds weight that scares the productivity out of me.

Any kind of performance, but particularly full musicals, exist in my mind as nearly living beings. There's so much potential for human experience from the first chord and, as I've witnessed numerous times, a line that the cast may find to be a throw-away could truly touch an audience member.

In the moment before that all begins, though? When the audience is hushed by the house lights dimming, the tech director is holding on cue one and the rail guys are just about to open the curtain? There's such a tangible possibility for complete failure. That's likely an entirely irrational fear on my part -- especially in the past few years, I've worked with casts and crews that could be considered near-professional and we've gotten through some massive technical problems with hardly a pause. Regardless, my mind races. I somehow compact everything I'll be doing during the performance into those few seconds, forget every lyric or scene change I have, remember every lyric or scene change I have, run over the opening number and hug whoever is near me. It's a horrifying process and should probably be grounds to get my brain checked out... but I love it.

The thrill of looking all that fear in the face, knowing that I DO know all of my lines and movements, and knowing that the audience will be at least moderately captivated for the next two hours, is the most incredible feeling. I've had the lovely honor this time around of sharing that moment with a cast member who I've been very close with for several years. We don't actively talk about everything going on in our minds, but we hold on to each other's hands with all of our might and enter the stage together.

I can't think of a better way to begin a performance.

In which I ramble about children and being remembered, in a feverish ibuprofen haze.

I don't want this blog to become my place where I unload all of my "I'm not going to have children" rants but...

I'm not going to have children, and, once again, I need to rant about it.

When I was out on my birthday, an older friend and I delved into one of those ~conversations~ about my future. I try not to approach those with a begrudging sigh, but come on, guys. I know that I'm 25 and work at a zoo and am not using my degree to it's fullest potential so can we just drop it??? Alright, now that that's out of the way. I mentioned in passing that I know I won't be having children, and that put the emergency breaks on, FAST. I've grown very used to this happening (see: nearly all of my previous posts here), so I rattled off my usual thing about how I know only one thing for certain about my future, blah blah blah.

That explanation seemed to work for her, but she did have one more question that managed to stick with me until I was at the gas station this afternoon and this blog post managed to write itself in my head.

"Don't you realize that when you die, you're going to leave no part of you for people to remember you by?"

To quote the lovely John Mulaney, "First of all; no."

Does that mean that when people think of me, all they think of are my parents? I mean, sure, they raised me well and I'm happy to have them. But... my dad fucked up, big time, a few years ago. I don't like talking about it most of the time (most of the people who have entered my life more recently don't even know a thing about the situation) and I have to stifle a comical amount of anger whenever I'm greeted with a "Hey Meredith, how's your dad?" The concern is sweet and it is nice knowing that when I do need support, there are people out there. Whether the offender realizes it or not, though, they are pushing me more and more back under my parents' shadow, just when I've begun to make my stake in this bizarre world. I'm not saying I'm resentful toward my parents. In the future, when I think back on them, I'm going to remember them as their own people, with their own qualities and accomplishments, which is the least anyone can do for each other. I'm not a perfect person by ANY sense of the word, but the last thing I would want for any children I'd hypothetically have would be for them to be remembered simply as being my offspring.

Going beyond all my daddy issues (ugh, if there was ever a phrase I hate), her question set off the fledgling funny person that lives inside me. I know that for as long as I'm stuck in small-city Pennsylvania, I can't really make any huge strides toward a career in comedy. The instant I find myself in New York (or Chicago), with enough money to live and take improv classes, though? I'll finally be on the path to channeling the comedy I grew up with into something productive.

I'm not flying down some crazy delusional path. I know that the odds of my actually becoming a Weekend Update anchor are ridiculously slim and my 494 Twitter followers that I have now may very well be the closest thing I ever get to "fans." Whatever impact I make here... isn't it better to be remembered by the people who genuinely want to remember you? I'd like to think that if I've contributed something worth thinking about to the world, the people who want to talk about it down the road are going to do so, regardless of whether or not I gave birth to them.

...This was a weird post. I've had three protein shakes and four huge glasses of juice today (along with probably too much ibuprofen) because I have what feels like a sinus infection, minus the actual pressure in my sinuses, and I'm terribly paranoid that it's actually the beginning of this monster flu, and I do NOT have time to deal with that. Anyway. Thanks for reading this mess that is my brain.

This is a Christmas blog post? Alright.

Christmas is really fucking weird.

Like. For one week of the year, we're supposed to get together with people we never see otherwise and give them presents that they may or may not like? For existing???

I mean, honestly, it's hard to not look at that end of Christmas in Michael Scott's view: "Presents are the best way to show someone you care. It's like this tangible thing that you can point to and say 'Hey man, I love you this many dollars worth.'"

I don't want this to become a preachy soapbox thing where I wax rhapsodic a la Charlie Brown (or right-wing wing-nuts who sneer at a "Happy holidays!" greeting when really, isn't the thought behind ANY greeting at all better than nothing?). I mean, sure, there are those moments where I'd love to go back to the simpler times, when Christmas was a joy-filled dinner in my grandma's basement (no, really), but I'm grounded in the real world, where things move crazy fast and our society is always growing and expanding. I love that.

Um, anyway.

What I'm trying to get out in this blog post is how weird it all is. We literally save up money (or, in my broke-ass case, scramble to make non-existent money move around in a favorable way) to buy more things than we do for the rest of the year, for the people in our lives? But, like, 90% of those expected presents are for people we don't see except for when we're giving them presents? So we're conditioning children to Pavlov-dog their way into every family gathering??? I remember being disappointed when my uncle got re-married because I knew it was a big family event, and then I didn't get one gift. What IS that?! Yes, Meredith. Your uncle is getting married so here's a ton of presents! It's April!!!

...I truly don't know where I'm trying to go with this post but I suppose this is my Christmas gift to the internet. You're welcome.

ALSO!! IMPORTANT ~BLOGGER~ NOTE. I was one of those fools who hastily deleted my instagram account the second they pulled the rug out from under us pseudo-photographers, but I decided to take that and turn it into something positive to hide my shame for being so quick to remove my beautiful shots of my dog and beer. I made a new account, meredithcesare (whoa, just like my name!), and for the entirety of 2013, I am going to post one picture every day. It'll keep me a bit more reigned in and will really let my iPhone photo editing skillz (?) shine. So, if you want to follow that project (the more followers I have there, the more pressure I'll feel to actually keep up with this), go for it!

I also hope to actually blog more in 2013. This past year has kind of been a waste for me, intellectually-speaking. Obviously, I'm not back in school or anything like that -- nor do I ever plan to be -- but I really feel like I didn't accomplish anything. Sure, I saw a lot more responsibilities at work and helped put on some freakin' massive musicals and plays, but... I need a writing outlet. So. Peer pressure. Tell me to write.

AND, speaking of peer pressure, I also got a gym membership from my aunt for Christmas. I haven't had a gym membership in nearly three years, and after one dance rehearsal two weeks ago, I was sore for four days. I need to better myself. YELL AT ME IF I DO NOT TWEET REGULARLY ABOUT GOING TO THE GYM.

...

Merry Christmas?

Ugh, a blog post about ~feelings~ [Insert Liz Lemon eye-roll here]

In any given group of people, I'm that person.

The one who cheers too loudly, laughs too hard, cries for a little too long after the credits roll.

You name the feeling, I feel it. Strongly. Stronger than anyone else I know. It's all-consuming. I get excited to a fault; I put too much faith in people. In some settings, it's really good -- I don't think I would have been front row, center, for the Steve Martin concert last year if I hadn't parked myself outside the theater eight hours before he took the stage (for mic check -- it was an additional two hours before the actual show). 

Actually, in most situations, this is ultimately a good thing. Sure, I may take over peoples' Twitter timelines because I reply to comedy writers and celebrities all the damn time, but when exciting or genuinely nice exchanges come from it? Those tweets are worth it. When I'm working on a musical and can't see the light at the end of the tunnel that is tech week, I subconsciously dig my heels in a little deeper and pour every bit of energy in me into the production. It's exhausting and makes me unbearable to be around if you're not on my crew, but again, in the end, it's worth it. I'm so proud of the theater kids I've worked with who are now in college, off starting their own careers. I hope it's a comfort for them that no matter what they go on to do, they have at least one constant cheerleader who believes in them.

I'm not in the best of moods as I sit here, writing this, though. I'm watching The Fifth Element because I wallow in stupid girly feelings in really stupid ways, and I'm trying to keep my mind off circumstances that are making me really, really sad.

For all those times I feel so proud or excited or valued, I feel those stupid single girl feelings. Even though I don't see myself """"settling down"""" in the stupid traditional sense (what even IS traditional anymore?), I feel all those desires that go along with being a woman. I know that I'm not always the best at expressing those feelings, and I know that changing that is entirely in my hands, but when those feelings are as strong as they are, it's hard to get them out of my head. It's frustrating. It's also something I've been forced to grow comfortable with, as much as it sucks (like right now). Basically, when it comes to romance, there's a whole lot of thinking on my end, but not a lot of action. I like that I'm a grounded person, and on nearly any day, it serves me well. Then, there are days like today, where everything just builds up and comes to a frustrating head that doesn't offer any sort of closure or comfort. It's just a mess of feelings that I can't express quite to my liking or explain away. 

On days like this... I write. And I hope that someone reads what I write. And that maybe, something will resound within them, and they'll be a little better off for it. At least then I can feel like my mopey evening hasn't gone entirely to waste.

I really, really like dyeing my hair.

This all started when 19-year-old me looked in the mirror and realized that my lovely shade of mousy brown had somehow transformed into mousy gray. I was 19, and, in most light, I had a full head of gray hair. I've been blessed to have the best stylist EVER at my beckon call, so shortly after working through the expected existential crisis, I was in his chair, watching my hair transform into a lovely shade of auburn.

He created a monster.

I quickly learned that red hair is the hardest color to keep up with, so, thanks to my never remembering what shade I used, my touch-ups turned into (not so) subtle color changes. Unfortunately, I was on a student's salary, so my dye jobs were typically done in a friend's kitchen. Hey, I got free food while I waited for the color to set, so it wasn't all bad! I was crazy experimental back then -- if it's a shade of red that you can buy at CVS, it was on my head. I'd love to tell you that being a brazen ginger was a fantastic time, but 97% of those shades made my skin look fluorescent yellow (damn my awkward skin tone) -- or, more often, I just looked like a foolish college student who was discovering what fun hair dye could be. OH. I was also getting wickedly curly perms through all of this. This was a dark period in my life, kids.

Fall 2009 brought a nice round of sanity with it. I cut nearly a foot of (orange) hair off (it was frizzy perm growth (did I mention that it had turned orange?), so I was not upset in the least to see it go) and had my stylist take me to a nice, sane chocolate-y brown. I finally looked closer to my age, and I spent the winter trying out different shades of brown... until I realized that I had been unintentionally working my way darker and darker.

In the spring before I graduated college (eww, weird December graduate alert), I snap-decisioned a really really REALLY short haircut. I'm talking... nearly shaved on the right side of my head. Part of the decision was due to my wanting to thoroughly erase all the damage the red dye and perms had left behind, but 3/4 was entirely my walking into the salon and saying "Let's do something new." I also let all of the dye grow out with the short haircut. Graduating college puts you in a bettering-yourself state of mind, so it was only natural to do.

I was actually okay with the ashy brown through most of that summer. It wasn't as shockingly gray since my hair was short, and it was definitely awesome feeling something healthy and natural on top of my head. ...And then I found Feria's midnight collection. Black dyes, with either red, purple or BLUE undertones? I was there. The red black faded to an auburn that reminded me too much of my previous mistakes, sadly, so I decided to say "Screw it" to being mainstream, and picked up purple. God, that purple black. It was just your average pitch black in indoor lighting, but a brilliant eggplant whenever I hit the sun. It also made my first showers after dye jobs look like murder scenes because of how much red and pink was rinsing out, but whatever.

And then there was the blue black. Starry Night. The best thing to happen to my hair since that very first auburn dye job, back in 2007. It was just black enough to be considered a natural shade when I was at work, but the second you put me under the sun or stage lights, I had blue hair. Blue hair!!! Do you know how awesome that made me feel? I stayed with that color for much longer than any other; for almost a year, I paraded around my blue hair like the proud little kid I am.

Then... I realized that blonde was the only color I'd never done. My hair was actually bright white blonde until I was 3 years old, but obviously, that was irrelevant in my thought process. Plus, since Amy Poehler holds the lady hero key to my heart, following her lead is something I'm always eager to do. For whatever reason, after years of bizarre hair colors, this was the one that gave me serious anxiety, though. I was terrified as I sat under my stylist's hairdryer. Since I'm a moderately paranoid child of the internet age, I spent the hours before my appointment reading up on bleach horror stories.

Thankfully, I had nothing to worry about, and, at least for the extended time being, I'm pretty sure my color-changing days are over. I really like being blonde. We do have more fun. Of course, that doesn't mean I've ruled out throwing in sections of pink every now and then, but I don't think we'll see that god-awful red ever again.

There's something wonderfully therapeutic about tweaking your appearance in an afternoon. I... might blame this blog post on hair dye fumes since I just touched up my color.

Um, if you want a glimpse of some of my color mistakes/triumphs, go through my album of profile pictures on Facebook. Look! A link!

...remember when I actually wrote blog posts?

Children? HA! Husband? HAHA!!!

Earlier this week, over on Tumblr, I was asked where I saw myself in five years. After giving that response -- living in a studio apartment in NYC because even though I'll hopefully be able to afford bigger, I'll be throwing all my money into classes at UCB -- I was asked why I didn't see marriage or children in my future. I explained my answer on Tumblr but since this is my real blog, I figured I'd elaborate here because I do what I want.

I spend a lot of time with children. I always have. Volunteering at church pretty much guarantees that 99% of your time is full of JESUS LOVES ME THIS I KNOW and the like. Plus, almost every customer I interact with at work is under the age of 12. I don't dislike children and I can't tell you how many times I've stopped everything at my cash register because a cute little infant's eyes are making me melt. But... that's it. That's the extent of my maternal instinct.

"HAHAHA. Just you wait, Meredith. I'll remind you of this conversation when I get the invitation to your first baby shower!"

If I had a dime for every time I shook my head at that response... I'd already be living in that NYC studio. I'm in my mid-20s. This isn't some fleeting thought that seemed cool at the time. I've been of the child-rearing age for, like, 10 years now (wh...), and I've known this about myself for just as long. Believe me, I'm aware that for every person who just naturally oozes that maternal instinct, there is someone who, when they are there in the maternity ward, suddenly become mother of the year. And... I am neither woman. Don't get me wrong -- I think it's completely admirable for a woman to either devote herself to the challenges of motherhood or take them on while maintaining an ordinary job. Both routes take an insane amount of dedication that I can't picture many men competently handling.

But when I sit back and look at myself? At all of my ambitions and goals and the little quirks that make me who I am? Being a mother is nowhere in that. That bit of knowledge is, quite frankly, the ONLY bit of my future that I am 100% certain about. I take a great deal of comfort in that since so much of my future is entirely up in the air. Obviously, I see myself in New York City, but wanting a job on SNL is so outlandish and based so solely on chance that I've had to get used to living my life by the seat of my (currently, purple floral print) pants. Knowing one thing about my future is what keeps me sane when I spend most of my time in my head wondering if today will be the day I find the job that will take me to NYC.

And then... there's the (lack of a) husband thing.

I know that my whole never-wanting-to-be-a-mother definitely turns away several guys, right off the bat. While I am completely okay with random hook-ups and weird nights that can only be excused by the fact that I'm a 20-something, the flip side there is that I AM a 20-something and, at least in this suburban nightmare that I call home, ladies my age are expected to be settling down right about now. I can't keep track of how many former classmates I see at work, with two, three kids listed on their family zoo memberships.

I'm fairly certain that at least half of this ~realization about myself~ has been caused by all that ~uncertainty about my future~ (SQUIGGLES). I had to end my healthiest  relationship because of uncertainty. Granted, we were young (so we set the world on fiyah), but I knew in my gut that because I had no idea where I saw myself professionally and as a person in five years, there was no way I could string a man along and be content with myself.

Maybe, when I finally find myself in New York, I'll find a man who is as into comedy as I am (I cancel plans around SNL, guys) and who doesn't want children and will just be happy with me and all my weird commitment issues and flaws. I mean... in addition to watching so many relationships fail around me, I've watched countless friends entirely lose the very essences of who they are, just to fit into a romance. I'm not saying I'm perfect and that I haven't changed myself for a guy, but each time, when I finally came to my senses, I was able to get back to myself and my priorities and the things that make me who I am. I know, I know... when I find that guy that doesn't make me change who I am, I'll be taking back this entire post and I'll be happy. I've heard that a million times, guys.

But... there's a really big, brassy part of me that doesn't want to find that guy. I've always been a horrifically logical person. Being an only child set me up for lots of evenings full of getting lost in my own mind. While that's typically a really dark, dangerous place that leads to a lot of angsty nights that even Prisoner of Azkaban-era Harry Potter would be ashamed of, it's also shed some really helpful insights on who I am.

Although I lack self-confidence far more often than I'd like to let on, I am a fiercely independent woman. While there is a part of me that loves when a guy opens a door for me and all those other romantic cliches... most of me hates them, I'm not a bra-burning feminist by ANY means but... I'm not helpless. When I'm in the moment, I can let myself go, but when it comes down to it, I do not let myself get swept off my feet. I'm entirely aware that this can be a fault VERY easily but I'm feeling comfortable with myself tonight, so... it's a good thing. I like being able to keep my head on my shoulders. I like who I am when I have my head on my shoulders instead of in the clouds. I like being able to put a reason behind my feelings and actions, instead of letting instinct take control.

Watch, hoards of replies will come to this post, from tons of guys who have quietly admired me from the sidelines but have always been too afraid to make a move on such a fierce lady.

Until then... I'm going to enjoy my Friday night ritual of beer and pizza at my favorite coffeeshop, by myself. I like being a single lady. I'm... NOT going to break into a Beyonce chorus right now.

:)

Who let me have a blog again, anyway?

I haven't posted here since September 11... whoops. I actually started a handful of posts after that, but most of them just turned into really shitty sequels of that post, so I trashed them. I also have a draft of a horrendously emo post that I thought would be ~awesome and revealing~ last week when I was in a weird, bleak mood, but the mood passed and so did my motivation to write like the 14-year-old version of myself. By whatever stroke of luck (read: typical misunderstandings between departments at work), I wound up with today off, though, and since it's a perfectly dreary autumn day, I decided to light some candles, listen to Grizzly Bear, and see what sort of blog post I could come up with (sorry in advance).

I guess I could talk about the Emmy's, even though there isn't too much that excited me? Amy Poehler was, in a word, confidence, and that was the highlight of the evening for me. I've always admired her take-charge attitude, but apparently, when you divorce Will Arnett, you exude sunshine and sexiness and wild, raging confidence that is more memorable than the rest of a three-hour award show. As far as the actual winners go... Aaron Paul's acceptance speech was one of the loveliest, most gracious speeches I've seen in a long time, and it made me that much more excited to get started on Breaking Bad when I finally finish all of SNL on Netflix (but I am going to watch Weeds first because of my newfound love of Kevin Nealon). Although I obviously hate everything about Two and a Half Men, I'm happy for Jon Cryer -- he's been stuck in Charlie Sheen's obnoxious shadow for far too long and it was nice seeing the better guy get some recognition for once. Julia Louis-Dreyfus will forever and always be one of my favorite funny ladies, and her moment with Amy was perfect, which was to be expected. The Stewart/Colbert/Fallon fight was honestly more entertaining than Kimmel's whole epic prank with Tracy Morgan, which was... flat. I think it would have been more entertaining if it had happened earlier in the show. Mainly, I'm just sick of sitting through three hours of an award show (where all the shows/actors I root for lose anyway) AFTER three hours of red carpet. At least Poehler was flawless.

Um, let's see... It's been over a month now since I went to UCB and I am going through serious withdrawal. I just want to do comedy. I honestly never thought of myself as the cliche ~funny person~, but lately, I've been more actively aware of when moderately amusing things come to mind. Like any kid who grew up watching Saturday Night Live, I've definitely thought about what it would be like to be standing onstage at 8H during Lenny Pickett's closing theme, but more and more, it's becoming something that I really WANT to do. It's so frustrating, because I live in a city where the only website with any info on improv classes around here is for sessions that started in February 2010. If there WERE any classes offered around here, I'm more than a little afraid that they'll be full of Michael Scotts who will just shoot up the entire scene every time anything good gets going. So... until I win the lottery, I'll just keep scouring NYC job sites for something for a girl with no relevant experience who just really, really likes the city. And, I'll keep tweeting stupid things at the funny people I want to work with. Someday, you'll hear Don Pardo, age 115, saying my name (after arduous lessons on how to pronounce my last name, no doubt).

 What else???

Oh, I guess I should join everyone else ever on the internet so I can keep my blog relevant? Yes, I thought I ironically downloaded Gangnam Style but decided it's ultimately sort of catchy. No, I did not pre-order the iPhone 5 (but I will be getting it when my first ZooBoo check is in my bank account). I FEEL ANGRY FEELINGS TOWARD THE REPLACEMENT REFS AND HAVE THOUGHT UP ALL SORTS OF PUNNY INSULTS.

...This has been an absolutely pitiful attempt to force myself back into regular blogging. Sorry, two readers.

In which I attempt to give the universe a pep talk.

I was going to write about September 11 today.

I actually have a post half-finished in my drafts that I started on Sunday and intended to complete today with some grand emotional flourish that would set it apart from the mountains of other 9/11 posts that are flooding the internet. But then, Chris Gethard posted this response to an anonymous question, and, after bursting into tears in my work parking lot, I drove home with a different blog post filling my head. It's actually a post idea I had been mulling over for a few weeks now, but Chris' amazing words (seriously, go read that post -- and his book!) sparked something in me.

It's funny that I was thinking about this blog post on my way home from work, because that's a big basis for a lot of what I'm going to get out here. My job is not glamorous. In ANY way. A typical day's uniform is grungy sneakers, shitty khaki shorts from WalMart and a blue t-shirt that's two sizes too big (and balloons out around my hips for whatever awkward reason?). It's also a job that has literally nothing to do with my hard-earned degree. I make barely enough from paycheck to paycheck to pay for said degree. I, once again, have no idea what I'm going to do for income when the season ends and we shut down for three months. A lot of the time, I find myself on auto-pilot, telling the same old customers the same old speech about when memberships go on sale or why the train is closed.

But then, when I sit back and think about it... I realize that I am pretty damn lucky.

I'm healthy, for starters. I'm lucky enough to come from a family that doesn't have too many inherited health conditions and my grandma on my dad's side is in her 90s and still kickin', all things considered. Even if it's not what I dreamed of when I was in grade school, I have a job. It's not much and it's not perfect, but it's a job in an economy that blows. While I know that I belong in New York City and my dream is to fly through UCB and get on Saturday Night Live, and that my current money and family and career situation isn't exactly conducive to that... I have some little glimmers of hope that I could actually make at least some of that a reality for myself sometime before I beat Darrell Hammond for the title of oldest cast member ever. I have a family that has supported me through 15 years of theater and praise band concerts. I have groups of friends that could not be more different but all bring joy and laughter and support into my life.

I'm not writing this blog post to say "Wow! Look at all the awesome things I've got!" (even though that felt really good and honestly, you guys should all do that sometime). I'm hoping to put some of my life into perspective for anyone out there who needs it.

More and more often, I see people complaining about EVERYTHING. If I'm not actively participating in the rant, I have almost definitely tuned you out and am instead going over some scene changes or old SNL sketches in my head. I'm not trying to say I'm holier than all thou complainers out there. I spent the majority of this summer ranting about work -- when I was at work, at home, at breakfast after church, wherever. Stuff pisses me off ALL THE TIME and if you follow me on Twitter, you get a good taste of that.

I'm also not trying to downplay depression and other mental things out of your immediate control that definitely make it harder to see the positive in everyday situations. I've found myself in really low places so many times before, and I know all to well that feeling of never finding something worth going on for. I felt that WAY more often than I have let on, from 4th grade on, though it is less often now.

What I've wanted to scream SO many times in the past year, to real life friends, complete strangers on the internet and everyone in-between, is just to be HAPPY for once. I'm not talking, let's go skipping through the world with irresponsible optimism. That won't get you anywhere and you'll just be disappointed far more than you'd like.

I'm not in a situation that I picked for myself. I'm also not in a position to make huge changes for myself yet. So... what good would complaining do? It's a weird line that's straddled over complacency and settling, which is the absolute last thing I plan on doing. I'm not content right now, but I'm also not miserable.

That's important, and I think it's something that everyone forgets quite often.

We're not miserable all the time.

Feeling miserable and hopeless? It sucks. And while it's going on, it feels like it's never-ending. But even when I am in the shittiest of moods... it usually only lasts, at most, an evening. It might creep into the next morning but something else will happen. A coworker will give a snarky observation. My dog will look at me with her bottom teeth hanging out. And, as much as the cynic in me will try to fight it... I let myself break out of the bad mood. I shut off the inner monologue of "My job sucks, my life sucks, this sucks." I find something worth getting excited about. Sometimes, it's huge and truly exciting -- I'm STILL hanging onto the happiness that I felt at my first UCB show. Usually, though, it's one of those tiny things that doesn't seem like much on its own, but when you look back, you remember as the details that make relationships and memories what they are. Maybe I put too much into those little things. I know that I get too attached, to a fault -- to the casts I work with, to TV shows I watch, to all sorts of things and people. But that attachment to something not miserable is what keeps me going.

That's my wish for people. I just want everyone to be able to find SOMETHING, anything, that gives them a little bit of hope and that edge they need to not become a complete cynic. This could get really corny really quickly, but it's a risk I'm willing to take. Just... find a TV show or a song or a person that makes you feel something even a little positive and latch onto it. Try to take some of the time you would ordinarily spend complaining and spend it instead by complimenting someone. Appreciate the fact that you're still alive, you're at least moderately healthy and you at least have enough money to have an internet connection. Write a silly blog post to attempt to get your feelings out.

And for Christ's sake, stop complaining. :)

This is a waste of internet space.

It's Sunday again, which means it's time for me to act like I have a blog that has readers and actual posts that people want to read. I've spent the past 20 minutes trying to come up with something to write about that isn't comedy and I'm coming up short because I've spent since Friday evening watching SNL on Netflix. I started watching from the very first episode back in April and I'm currently 23 episodes from the halfway point (Helen Hunt's season 19 show) (yes, I did take the time to figure that out). I'm in the midst of the Phil Hartman era, so I've been feeling all sorts of feelings. HE WAS THE FUNNIEST MAN OF OUR TIME AND HE HAD EVERYTHING GOING FOR HIM AND HE WAS THE KINDEST PERSON AND... Anyway.

It's also that time of year again. I have a half-completed post in my drafts full of September 11 ~feelings~ that I might post this week if it doesn't turn into something completely shitty and cliche.

...

This post is going nowhere. I would say "And fast," but I started it five hours ago and am only now returning, so...

I don't want this blog to become re-cap central, but I suppose I could talk about a cool thing I got to do this week. You're all interested, right??

The theater group I work with is putting on a production of Macbeth this November. Our director got in touch with a man who is a pro at Shakespeare -- he's performed for a good portion of his life and even worked with Sir Ian McKellan. He put on a workshop for us on Wednesday night, and while I didn't know what to expect when I walked in, I knew it'd be something interesting that I'd hopefully be able to take with me. The beginning of the workshop was kind of dry -- we just went over iambic pentameter and all those Shakespeare-y terms that everyone had drilled into their heads freshman year of high school. I think he could tell he was kind of losing us, so he then made us all get up and yell "No!" a total of eight different ways. The further we progressed, from shouting and punching to a simple finger-wag, the more he encouraged us to use our facial expressions less and our gut more. It required so much more concentration, but when I got it? I GOT IT. He also did a few more Shakespeare-focused exercises with the students, but I spent most of the remainder of the workshop wishing I had heard that before Fiddler on the Roof happened. Of course, I only had nine days to prepare the role, but he really helped me focus in a way I hadn't been able to before. I'm also sure that it's something I'll take with me whenever I finally start taking improv classes.

Welp.

This has been a sorry excuse for a real blog post. It's also now nearly eight hours later than when I started it, the Steelers are about to kickoff and I have curlers in my hair for absolutely no reason that I need to take out.

Hopefully my next post will be something worth reading!

I'm not embarrassed that I admit to still playing Pokemon in this post...

Back when I was in college, I'd put on Pandora, set it to either Kanye West or The Strokes, grab a coffee and I'd be able to write for hours on end. I could get through features for the Knight, research papers, poems, creative nonfiction, whatever, as long as I had my music.

I've lost track of how many times I've given myself that exact set-up in my post-grad life... but the result has almost always been a severe case of writers' block. I can't quite peg the block on any one factor, but I'm almost positive that a good portion of it comes from not having a deadline. I wasn't a slacker in college, but I ALWAYS put off assignments until the last possible second -- I had it down to a science; I could tell you exactly how long it would take me to write a page in prose or research and I'd calculate how much time I needed before the finished product had to be in the professor's inbox. Even my thesis was written that way... I remember dozing until SNL the weekend after I graduated (why they let me graduate before actually turning in my thesis is beyond me. I went to a weird school, okay?), then the second the Goodnights music started, I opened Word and cranked the entire thing out in one sitting.

That being said... I'm setting deadlines for myself with this blog. I need to get back into the process of actually writing.

During the week, if an idea for a blog post hits, I'll go with it and see where it takes me. I still have those moments of inspiration sometimes, and now that autumn is (finally) just about here, I know I'll find myself at Tim Horton's at odd hours of the night.

But, on Sundays, since they're really my only day sort of to myself, I'm going to write a post. My deadline will be whenever I go to bed, so odds are they'll actually be posted early Monday morning since my Sundays are always fueled by coffee in insane amounts, but whatever. Maybe (hopefully) someday, I'll have enough of a ~following~ here that there will be people who give me topics to write about. That'd be nice. I'm not usually much of an idea person, which is probably where this problem really comes from in the first place. Until then, though, my posts might take on more of a recap-y feel than what they have been thus far, which will probably just encourage anyone reading this to actually give me prompts because my life is really boring and believe me, you do not want to read post after post about how much time I spent playing Pokemon after work. Speaking of, I just beat the Galactic Grunts in the electric building and it took EVERYTHING OUT OF ME.

Anyway...

If you actually read this post (and have been reading), please, please let me know. I want this blog to actually become something. My writing has touched people in the past, and it's one of the best feelings I've ever experienced. I want that again. If there's anything you ever want me to write about, tell me. I'm just about positive I have it set up so that you don't have to be a blogspot member to leave a comment here. And... it's nice knowing that I'm not just throwing these words out there to nothing.

(I'm not sure if I'm counting this as my post for today or not. I feel like it doesn't count, so... there may be another post coming later tonight. Get excited)

A trip down memory lane!

This is my very first blog post, ever:

It's from nearly 10 years ago. I was a freshman in high school, I really liked punctuation and I'm pretty sure I thought I was the shit when I posted it.

...I'm now an ~adult person~ in the working world, I like correct punctuation and, well, I'm still the shit, but at least I have the general constructs of typing on the internet down.

This is my lame filler post for the night since I've been attempting to write something quality for two hours now and all I've accomplished is frustration.

You're welcome, internet.

(At least I spelled "kindergarten" correctly. Kind of amazed that I did, let's be honest here)

An awkwardly emotional post about Chris Gethard.

I've honestly lost track of how many people have said that if you want to become a "member" of the Chris Gethard Show community, you just have to talk to someone and you'll instantly be welcomed in and feel like you were always there.

I was skeptical when I parked myself in the UCB line last Friday night.

There were three teenage boys in front of me, and I caught snippets of their conversation. Chris' name kept coming up, but I didn't think much of it or jump in because he's one of the main performers in The Stepfathers, so I just assumed they were fans or whatever. Around 8:15, though, I realized that everyone else in line was going inside first to get their actual admission tickets, and I hadn't, so I double-checked with them to see if that's what I was supposed to do.

They must have talked about me while I was inside, because when I got back in line, one of them, Coby, started berating me with questions about myself -- of course, that could have been payback for the only other thing I said to them before that; I yelled at him for never having seen Donnie Darko. ANYWAY.

In the next 45 minutes, we did not shut up. We were joined by Mimi, the hula hooper from TCGS. We laughed about the stupid claims to fame that Erie, Pa. has. They let me have my fangirl moment when I first stepped inside the theater. They invited me to sit with them during Stepfathers. After the show, they introduced me to the other cast members and then we talked with Chris for half an hour. We awkwardly said goodbye countless times.

The specifics of our conversations aren't what I'm going to write about -- they're not that important to you if you weren't there and they're the memories that I'm going to keep with me when I think about my first time at UCB. What IS important and what I'm going to dwell on for a long time to come, though, is how right everyone was.

The community that Chris Gethard has formed with his show is one of the most perfect things I've ever discovered.

Obviously, TCGS is a comedy show that is usually unplanned and tends to make its way into some interesting places -- hell, the show I went to in Philadelphia started off with a random nobody throwing a burning copy of Chris' book onstage and ended with another random nobody rushing the stage and drinking more of the Milkshake of Death than Chris himself did. But I digress (and also don't want to spend too much time thinking about that milkshake). Comedy is, by its nature, in-your-face and not afraid to go to uncomfortable places.

When I first started watching TCGS (aka: binge-watching the first 15 or so episodes in one day last witner), those uncomfortable places were what made me love the show. Sure, the Human Fish is hairy and hilarious; Bananaman is, well, a banana; Rob Malone is the world's best dancer and I love him for that. But those real moments, when people were allowed to be unhappy and talk about their problems? I'm an emotional person, so... I was hooked.

And THEN Chris' book, A Bad Idea I'm About to Do, came out. And he started writing long blog posts about depression and ambition and topics that make me want to hug him. Chris reveals so much of himself to anyone and everyone, and because of that, you just want to get to know him. And, when you're given the opportunity to actually hold a conversation with him, you realize that there is absolutely no facade or barrier. He's the same person, everywhere. He's got flaws and issues and he isn't afraid to let people know that.

It's inspiring.

It's also laced throughout every single person involved with the show -- and it's why I instantly had such great connections with them on Friday night. I've always been outgoing thanks to 15 years of theater. But, in most cases in my life, being that outgoing person has earned me many acquaintances. I might chat with someone at a bar about all sorts of things, but at the end of the night, my life isn't changed because of them. Of course, there are some perfect exceptions, like Evan, the topic of my train blog post. The people in the TCGS community? Every single one of them is the exception.

The person who runs TCGS tumblr actually just recently posted that if you want to become a "member," you just need to strike up a conversation with someone. Talk about the Human Fish. Talk about the issue that you've been struggling with. Whatever. I walked away from the Stepfathers with a handful of awesome new friends who I am currently missing like crazy because I'm not in New York with them right now. When you add up the amount of time we actually spent talking with each other, it's not much more than two hours, and I feel like I've known these people for much longer. Going into a friendship knowing that you have a niche interest in common is one of the most fantastic things -- it's why the friends I've made through Tumblr are so important to me. Knowing that everything I heard about TCGS community is true is what it must feel like when a little kid sees Disney World and they can actually touch Mickey Mouse's ears (is that a weird comparison? I feel like it is).

I would say that I feel lucky for the way things happened on Friday, but since it really is that easy to just put yourself in this amazing position... it's not quite luck. I WILL say, though, that all of us are so, so lucky that some misfit from New Jersey decided to make people laugh.

I got home from New York on Sunday night. On Monday morning, the news broke that IFC has adopted Chris for a year of promotions and they are going to help him develop a pilot script based off his book. Knowing that so many more people are going to be exposed to this man makes me feel like a proud parent. He's finally getting the attention that he deserves, and I hope that between this new deal and my post, maybe you'll check out his stuff, too. Every episode of his show is archived here, there's a blog here and the IFC site here.

This is the post he wrote on depression makes me cry every time I read it. I recommend it to anyone, even if you see the world through rose-tinted glasses.

I can't wait to get back to New York. I'm craving more conversations and laughter and ~moments~ and I want to meet EVERYONE.

PS. Coby... have you watched Donnie Darko yet? :)

PPS. Stepfathers was absolutely hilarious and the perfect first improv show for me.