Dumb It Down, Love

A friend of mine, quizzing me on why a blazingly or even modestly successful comedy writing career has yet to materialize for me, asked, "What's the difference between you and Amy Sedaris?" She takes more drugs, was my first thought. Later I thought about it again and concluded, Amy Sedaris takes herself way less seriously than I do me. She seems to lark through life seeing mostly the goofy side. I just read on the web that she'd like to do a sitcom of "Night, Mother" where the girl commits suicide a different way every night. That's funny! Also she has all these stuffed squirrels in her apartment, while I have towering bookcases full of important tomes.

My friend alluded to this when he said "she doesn't walk around thinking about fucking Dostoyevsky." I took this as a swipe at my recent post on Anna Karenina, but my friend denied that, saying it was more about my refusal to let go of my academic side that causes my comedy to be littered with references to post-structuralism, Zizek and Freudian theory.

"Dumb it down," my friend advised. And he's a poet! He's not some creepy 26-year-old TV producer whose advice I would spurn automatically (to my career peril).

I have to admit he's right. My comedy remains too literary and not nearly hilarious enough. I blame it on suicidal ideation. It's hard to be funny when you think you're disappearing or you don't see the point in going on.

I'm not working, still or again. I get to sit around the house all day, every day. Part of me loves this silence, this nothingness. But yesterday I was brushing my hair and looking at my face in the mirror and suddenly I couldn't tell if it was me -- I felt detached from the image. I was flooded with panic and had to leave the house immediately just to get away from any mirrors. I had a ham and cheese sandwich at a nearby patisserie and the transaction went fine and I had a fizzy orange drink and it felt reassuring. I did not have a psychotic break. Not that day.

I obviously need more drugs, though. K'yuh!