C'mon and wind me up . . . Unless there's something good on PBS, then you're on your owwwwwn, baby.
When 2016 started, you had no idea Friday, August 12th was going to be so awesome. Come support the hilarious Cristin Davis at Monkey Pants Bar & Grill for the taping of his first comedy special. Don't slack - get your tickets now! When it sells out, and you're not there, rest assured we'll be talking shit about you.
Join us for an evening of stand-up comedy mixed with soul-crushing insults!
I'll be one of the performers on the show who will stand before a panel of "Snarkers" who will then roast everything from my jokes to the unusual length of my second toe. It's always a good time, and each Snark Show exists in an ephemeral bubble. Go so you can say, "Oh yeah, I was totally at the Snark Show where Ronnie D completely broke down on stage because of what one of the Snarkers said. It was crazy!! She ran into the audience, ate a chicken wing -- I know, fucking nuts cause she's a vegetarian -- tied the bone in her hair, then hid under that coffee table up on stage. We all had to pretend we didn't see her to keep her calm, which, of course, was really difficult when she starting smelling her armpits and singing a song about BO and BMs.... Man, you shoulda been there!"
P.S. The photo above is an old-school shot of me at the Snarkers' table circa 2010. (That's the one-and-only Will Novak in the background!)
Just so you know, we use index cards now. It's totally legit.
OK, so at this age, I've finally accepted the fact that my love life will never turn out like the 1988 chart-topping song by the British pop band Breathe. I will never get a sweet caress; no one will calm my restlessness. I'm bound to toss and turn alone in my uncomfortable twin bed, waking to a tangled mess of bed sheets and an anxious rush to check that the cats are still breathing and didn't become casualties of yet another night of my subconscious giving me disturbing dreams regarding all the things I've done so well in my waking life to suppress. This is just a fact. Something I know and understand, and I'm seriously OK with that.
What I'm not OK with is waking up and checking my phone and suddenly remembering what I was doing on it before I crashed out.
Last night was one of those nights -- you know those nights where you recognize you should leave the house, but you've got that sneaky depression that convinces you that you really just need rest and that staying in is actually the healthy, emotionally-responsible thing to do. So you stay in, put the TV on for background noise, and you eat, and then eat some more, then eat some more, write some shitty prose about your mental illness, eat a little bit more, pet the cat, get emotional about how much you love the cat, start to get worried that maybe you have an unhealthy love for your cat, get annoyed with your own thoughts, think about eating again -- but you literally can't because of the indigestion -- so you start looking up things on the internet about the place you were going to go out to and the people who were going to be there, then you start looking up some people you don't need to be looking up, and then before you know it, you're in the dark depths of the internet. Most times when this happens, by morning, I completely forget where it was I traveled to in cyber space. Then when I grab my phone, it all comes flooding back to me in a rush of shame and realization of all the hours of my life I wasted on absolutely nothing. Usually, I find the typical stuff: comedy shows, horoscopes, exes, vegan recipes I'm convinced I'll make for work that week, pretty pictures of places that aren't a thousand degrees, puppets.
But this morning, I came across these disturbing little gems actually saved in my photos . . .
Very old women afflicted with Alzheimer's disease given fake baby dolls so they can pretend they're real and emotionally connect with them.
Now, I understand the concept behind this, but it is still emotionally crushing to me, especially the moment when it becomes clear again that these aren't real babies, and they are no longer of baby-making age.
Perhaps my latest internet wandering is just a manifestation of my aging fertility or a sign of PMS. Or maybe I'm just a sick fuck. And well, as we've already established, nobody asks a sick fuck to put their hands together and pray.
Order expensive coffee. Taste expensive coffee. Try to place bad taste of expensive coffee. Decide it tastes a bit like iced beef broth with a tinge of far-too-acidic coffee. Be appalled with this realization for a multitude of reasons, mainly because you're a vegetarian. Consider asking for a replacement expensive coffee. Stare at the coffee counter long enough to make it awkward for everyone in the coffee shop. Decide you don't have what it takes to ask for another expensive coffee. Decide it's less about your self-confidence and more about the fact that if this expensive coffee tastes like that, another expensive coffee will taste like that too. Pat yourself on the back for realizing you're not a spineless consumer, just a realist. Set the expensive coffee aside and stare at it periodically with derision. Get thirsty and decide to try another sip of the expensive coffee. Notice that it still tastes a bit like iced beef broth with a tinge of far-too-acidic coffee. Start thinking maybe it isn't the coffee, it's just you and your inability to ever be satisfied because you want too much, and you need to stop living in your delusions of grandeur. Sip the expensive coffee again. Start thinking maybe it doesn't taste like that at all, that you're just being crazy. Start thinking maybe you do have a persecution complex, sitting there at the coffee shop thinking that the barista and the system is against you charging you all this money for a horrible-tasting expensive coffee when, in fact, it's just your high expectations. Start to realize that you are incredibly lucky that you even have an expensive coffee, do you know how many people would be happy to have an expensive coffee? Think, yeah, sure, I don't really like this expensive coffee, it's not really for me, but I should probably just drink the expensive coffee since I spent the money and time on it. Start thinking, mmmmm, maybe this expensive coffee is actually really good. Start loving the expensive coffee. Start feeling guilty for ever thinking there was anything wrong with the expensive coffee when -- clearly -- the only thing there was anything wrong with was you. Lower your eyes in shame in the presence of the expensive coffee. Apologize profusely to the expensive coffee. Tell the expensive coffee you're so sorry for ever thinking it ever did anything wrong when you have such a track record for being an unstable fuck-up. Beg the expensive coffee not to leave you even though secretly inside you still think you're right about it tasting a bit like iced beef broth with a tinge of far-too-acidic coffee, and that's just really not a taste you want to spend any significant amount of time with. Start sobbing and blabbering on and on about how you know you screw everything up, you always have, probably always will. Start pounding your fist on the table in a rageful realization about how you're the reason nothing ever goes right in your life or relationships. Yell to the expensive coffee, "I JUST WANNA HAVE YOUR BABY!" Realize the entire coffee shop is looking at you in curious horror. Realize that at least two people in the coffee shop have filmed your inappropriate interaction with the expensive coffee. Gather your belongings in a hurry and rush out of the coffee shop ashamed. Get to your car and realize you left the expensive coffee on the table. Feel proud about that. Think about how much money and time you committed to the expensive coffee though. Start believing it's a sign of maturity to try and work things out with the expensive coffee. Walk back up to the door of the coffee shop fearing the expensive coffee will no longer be there. Imagine that the expensive coffee is now in the smooth, soft hands of someone at least 15 years younger, its straw in the supple, uncracked lips of some hot, giggly blonde. Fling open the door to see the expensive coffee is still waiting for you on the table. Have a movie moment with the expensive coffee. Run to the expensive coffee. Take the expensive coffee in your arms. Passionately french kiss the expensive coffee. Tell the people in the coffee shop to go fuck themselves because they don't know the expensive coffee like you do. Storm out in with the swishy hips of self-righteousness. Climb into the driver's seat of your car. Breathe deeply. Calm yourself. Look at the expensive coffee sitting there beside you. Realize that -- perhaps -- you have some personal issues you should probably work out.
Maybe Wilhelm Friedemann Bach wasn't a "classic underachiever," maybe he just didn't want to do exactly what everybody expected him to do. Maybe he didn't want to be a composer; maybe he just wanted to be a fisherman or work at the laundry or get an old carriage and a couple of horses and travel the countryside. Or maybe he did love music, but he didn't want to play in stuffy concert halls and live up to the expectations of contemporary, mainstream culture. Maybe he didn't want to compose "accessible" music. Maybe he wanted to play little cafes in small towns and connect with the townspeople. Maybe he just wanted to live -- truly live! There's lots of ways to live, Dad! Just because you're a successful composer, doesn't mean I have to be too, Dad!! There's more to me than you, Dad!! Why can't I just be my own person?!? You know, maybe my life wouldn't be such a mess if I was just allowed to be ME!! Did you ever think of that, huh? Huh? HUH?!?!? Oh, the whole world thinks I'm a tragic waste of potential? Is that so?? IS' MIR SCHEIßEGAL!!!
In Case You Were Wondering . . .
Sometimes Ronnie D writes funny stuff. Sometimes she writes desperate teenage prose. Most times she just slams her feeble, little woman-hand onto the keyboard in an attempt to feel something, anything.