Do I immerse myself in comedy to avoid real emotional honesty Lord?
Am I fixated on getting the most mileage about of my funny side because getting laughs makes me feel most alive?
Can I ever overcome the thrill of scoring more crying emojis from friends old new after sharing my latest and greatest bits, fresh off the press, which make feel the most blessed?
Do I care about earning recognition points in the world of fiction or just care about getting paid to be professional joke killer on stage around the world?
If I hate the art of stand-up comedy so much or being around other people so much, according to my wife, then why would I dedicate the totality of my focus, brain power and time toward the art of laugh yanking entertainment, 142 comedy records later?
Do I love the art of standup comedy because it fulfills my needs to shred and feel like a rock star without having to master the art of playing my Fender Stratocaster ever?
Lord, when I prayed in Synagogue last Saturday, asking for the opportunity for my father to see me as a success before he dies? Was I talking about being a working standup comedian away my kids 300 days a year, a well-paid podcast host comedian or as a working TV writer who writes books on the side with no time to see his kids whatsoever?
Don’t you think the main conflict in my book of short fiction, Waste Of Height Really Short Stories is the urge to finance my return to the stand up comedy yet but can’t just yet?
I have all these jokes and want to capitalize on them so badly Lord.
Am I being a lazy brain for not wanting to write these short new stories that I have great log lines for?
Why do I just want to write jokes and killer job descriptions for startup clients to put Stand Up Staffer in business?
How can I survive the charges of softness by dad Lord?
Is digging ditches going to provide the dream life for my kids?
I’ve got specs of grey at 47, which are signs of wisdom right?
I don’t want to be married to any script anymore Lord.
I don’t want to hide behind a computer anymore Lord.
I want to kill on the Coliseum floor.
I want to get paid to kill.
I’m tired of hearing nobody reads anymore.
I’m tired of hearing get focused by dad.
But deep down, Lord, I know I must pick a race to finish 1st in at 47 already.
The kids want me to perform standup comedy again.
Once I start collecting unemployment, I could start doing that again.
I need think big, show conviction and reach out to big shot performers like Toby Keith who I admire and share my comedy records with.
My big ask is asking for a booker referral of any kind.
I need to be booked for shows.
I have 6 months left on a car lease that I’m not even paying for.
I need to cash in on my white privilege already.
This guy on LinkedIn who I admire says write stories that matter.
Well, my jokes matter too. They’re truth bombs specials, made especially for these times.
The hardcore hilarious of them is beyond debunkable.
I need to become a sales machine.
Either I’m selling jokes on stage or during the day selling my headhunter writing services as Stand Up Staffer, Creative Tech Recruiter Extraordinaire.
I’m tired of spending money on writing contests only to lose again.
I should’ve won the at Press 53 contest for short fiction, I was only competing against 250 writers for Christ’s sake.
I want to get a talent manger or lit agent to get me a book deal after seeing my talent for being the quickest punchline blaster in the US.
Donald Trump’s father said, “No man ever became rich from sitting behind a desk.”
I’m tired of repeating myself Lord.
I hate to abandon goals for writing contests, like the Big Break One for Gum King Of New York.
But I’d rather write that script at my own speed this year or enact that business idea for Hop-O-Rama Chew with somebody more than just an imaginary friend courtesy of Final Draft.
I need to get on other people’s podcasts.
I don’t want to be a crying mess on birthday again like I was this year, Lord.
I heard from an old friend on my birthday, who said, “May you always kill on stage.” He tells me to sent audition tapes to Fox.
I know that my true friends still want me to succeed on stage.
They know I was made for it.
I want to please them.
I love them.
I want to please my kids.
My daughter says, “Daddy, do whatever you do be happy, just get me the mansion in North Salem that I desire.”
But I got to get of the house to make contacts and make that happen.
I’m talking circles.
This was supposed to be a story for a short fiction contest about getting head start on cancer, but it is.
Cancer can be waiting around the corner.
My dad might have lung cancer.
He has a biopsy next week.
This had supposed me to a chance to tell him, I’m gay about laugh yankage and I’m finally going for it all the way and that writing books, blogs and doing more comedy records and podcasts isn’t enough to keep my fighting spirit alive with the Gods of comedy anymore.
If I was making money off it, I don’t think so, not anymore.
I crave applause, I crave respect.
I have to finance my dreams my way, Stand Up Staffer is here to say.
It’s the only way I can finance a trip to France for my daughter’s 13th birthday, the big bash in her honor, and I’ll feel like a big macher for once in my life.
And I’ll have you to thank for giving me the strength and courage to take on the world despite feeling like a designated slow poke in elementary school.,
I’m going for it but got to be Standup Staffer Hero first, and doubts remaining of my willingness to what it takes to make this reality happen is beyond debunkable.
Thanks for the fighter’s chance to prove my worthiness and for the head start on cancer, being a late bloomer and all Lord, very, very much.
Head-Start on Cancer, Challah.
Thank you very much.