offering me their dildos, that I was gonna do this for the rest
of my life.
I’ve thought about that moment a lot, and why I felt like
that. How could such a painful, embarrassing moment
become the turning point in my life?
When I think about it, I had already made the decision to
be a comedian earlier in my life. When I rode that damn bus
all day, two days in a row, just to stand in the courtroom, as
a mfteen-year-old foster kid that nobody loved. I told the
judge that I was gonna be a successful comedian. ͳat was
the day I decided in my heart to be a comedian and make
people laugh.
But what happened on the Lesbian Bomb Night was that
when I did that show, and those women heckled me, and
they were laughing at each other’s heckles—people were
still laughing. Yeah, the laughing was at my expense, but
people laughed, and I was paid.
I got $50 for mfteen minutes. If I could string together,
like, even just four mfteen-minute segments per day, I could
be making bank!
But it wasn’t just about making money. When I’m
onstage, I feel like it’s—it’s where I am supposed to be. It’s
who I am. When I am onstage, it’s like this adrenaline rush.
You gotta show up and be on and bust your ass, or people
will not laugh. And nothing else makes my mind work so
fast and so hard. I like that feeling.
Getting paid that night allowed me to imagine a place for
myself in the universe doing something I loved.
It’s a risk though. Everything you get on that stage is
ann
(Ann)
#1