Friend, I can't decide if sex addicts are real.

Dr. Phil's show is a great conversation starter

Joshua: I like weed, but I don't think I think about it eighty-five percent of the day...hell, not even fifte percent of the day. Or five. I just can't think of anything in my life that just consumes the majority of my thoughts.

Me: No. There's other stuff. . .

Joshua: I got stuff to see.

Me: There's a whole big, wide world out there.

Joshua: And if you close your eyes...and do nothin' but fuck, you gonna miss it. It's just gonna pass you by. . .

Doh!erty

Casey: (singing the Education Connection jingle)

Julia: Do the Education Connection ads with Shannen Doherty make you guys a little sad?

Casey: Yeah, kind of.

Shawn: Nah, I think they're fine.

Bangin'

Casey: ...then he said, "I'll see what I can do."

Dan: Were you finger bangin'?

Casey: No, Dan! But, I did finger bang his butthole.

Dan: Oh, really?

Casey: Yeah, but like...I was still in my office and he was in his.

Dan: Wow.

Casey: Yeah, my fingers can apparate and disapparate but only from my hand into other people's asses.

Dan: You know...they say that, after a couple years in a relationship, there are no surprises...

**Note: I had already used the term "finger bangin'" earlier that afternoon. In no way is Mr. Granata this crass. (Dan, do you think they bought my disclaimer?)

Sorry, I was in her fan club.

Heather: Did you know Paula is in the hospital?

Casey: No!

Heather: Sorry. Wrong chat.

Casey: Oh! I thought you meant Paula Abdul.

Heather: No. Coworker.


I hope both Paulas are okay.

Automatically not people

Look. They're "bear-shaped" blobs. 

Holding a gummy bear.

Casey: Can we be honest with ourselves? These don't look like bears.

John: Well what do they look like?

Casey: Not bears. Examine this.

Handing a gummy to John.

John: This is totally a bear.

Casey: Nah.

Rawson enters.

Rawson: What's going on?

John: Casey doesn't think these look like bears.

Casey: They don't!

Rawson: Let me see.

Casey: Look, they're kissing.

John: How can they kiss if they're not bears?

Casey: What?!

John: You said they weren't bears. How are they kissing.

Casey: You don't have to be a bear to kiss. I've kissed and I'm not a bear.

John: So are they people?

Casey: No!

John: What else can kiss?

Rawson: Anything with lips.

Casey: Just because I said they aren't bears doesn't mean they're automatically people.

John: This is why I won't listen to any of your arguments because they make no logical sense.

Casey: I'm leaving. It's rude in here.

Grandmother knows best.

From last night. Please read all of this with a southern accent.


Memaw: I went to the movies the other night.

Casey: Yeah? What'd you see?

Memaw: I saw Meryl Streep's new movie.

Casey: Oh, how was it?

Memaw: It was...okay.

Casey: Not that great?

Memaw: Well, I think it embarrassed Peggy.

Casey: Why?

Memaw: It's about this couple and they're trying to work on their marriage.

Casey: Okay...so...

Memaw: In the bedroom.

Casey: It was sexual? Is that what you're telling me?

Memaw: (giggling) Well...it wasn't normal sexual. There was...a bit more spice to it.

Casey: Well, okay. I see.

Memaw: But, yeah, it was good. Tommy Lee Jones is in it and he is looking old!

Casey: He looks old? He's always looked old.

Memaw: Well he has, but I don't know if it was all the close up shots of his face or what, but he had more wrinkles than I've got. He must have lost weight or something.

Casey: You think?

Memaw: Well when people lose a lot of weight, they can look older. Your skin sags. Of course, your skin sags just from getting older, too. You start to look crunchy.

Casey: Crunchy?!

Memaw: Yeah, that's what's wrong with me. I'm getting crunchy. Well, I'll let you get back to your dinner. I just wanted to talk to you.

Emily's wedding. Best bridesmaid and best (bossiest) florist/wedding coordinator she's ever known.

This office smells

Rawson: Smells like tea.

Nicole: What?

Rawson: What is that?

Nicole: Tea.


Five minutes later.


Rawson: Smells like burp. Did you just burp?

A blast from our past

Because the Olympics happened so long ago. I can't wait for the "Where are they now?" segment that will probably air on Today tomorrow morning. Thanks, NBC News.

Dancing Days Are Here Again

It's funny how, prior to my vacation, if I saw one more invite to a show or a birthday party or any sort of event pop up, I was ready to say "Fuck this noise!" and bail on the invitation.

Now that I'm back, I am not doing anything. Seriously, nothing.

I need to be doing things but the idea of doing them makes me...cringe? Vomit? Cry? All of the above. It's not that I don't like people's birthdays or shows or any of that other joyful stuff that takes place when you're friends with people and you like to support them, it's just that...guys, I think I'm old.

I know it didn't happen overnight, but it most certainly feels as if it did. I can convince myself on any good day that I am going to get the following done:

*go for a run
*feed the cat
*healthy breakfast at home
*get ready for work (and look smashing, by the way)
*go to work from 9am until 5pm and, there, I will do brilliant things
*have dinner with a friend or catch a show or both
*come home and start some laundry
*write for at least two hours
*chill out with a good book and a glass of wine
*in bed by 12
*awake with the energy to do it all over again tomorrow

Do you know how many of those things actually take place on a daily basis? 4.5...because I'm rarely brilliant at work.

I convinced myself that I would have the summer to work on all of the home projects I neglected while I was prepping for fringe, rehearsing and performing, and moving, and piecing together more travel itineraries than I care to count. This summer, I have failed.

However, what I now lack in all of those new home projects, I've made up for with exhaustion, drunken nights with the boy, writing meetings, and good times.

But, boy, am I tired. You see, I can't even remember when I started writing this in the first place. Why is it called Dancing Days Are Here Again? I mean, other than the whole Led Zeppelin being awesome thing, why?

Basically what I'm trying to say is it is Sunday afternoon. 3pm, to be exact. I've been in bed this whole time. Literally all day. Since last night at about midnight. And a part of me feels extremely guilty. Another part of me says, "Fuck off, guilt" and pours another bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios- a new love in my life.


**Six and a half hours after posting this I realize that the reason I titled this 'Dancing Days...' is because my dance card is full I guess. Basically, I'm an unintentional genius. 

Protect your daughters! Give them braces.

This Invisalign Teen commercial is really gnawing on my nerves. The premise is simple and, according to some ad exec, harmless, possibly even adorable. You have two sisters-twins as a matter of fact-one has braces, the other wears Invisalign.


 First of all, how horrendous. What parents would go so far as to favor one twin over the other by paying an extra $20,000 so the chosen one won't be called "Brace Face" by all her peers? I'm no parent, but I say, "Invisalign for all or for none at all." It's only fair.


Secondly, thank you advertising for teaching our young people, once again, that pretty always wins over personality. As if you can't tell by the photo posted above, the twin who is forced to wear braces, headgear, and abstain from eating popcorn (The Triple Whammy of Sadness, as I like to call it) is, naturally, the one whose hair is separated down the middle and styled in two, low-hanging pigtails. An obvious sign of an inferiority complex for young girls. Thank you, America. And can we talk about the fact that her sister,the twin with the confidence to style her hair in a long, flowing fashion, is documenting the nightly donning of the humiliating headgear as if it were some sort of ceremony? So, if I fork over thousands of dollars for Invisalign, my kid can be an asshole? Is that what you're telling me?


 As a child who was cursed with, for lack of a better term, an almost irreversibly fucked up mouth of teeth, I found this ad incredibly offensive. As an adult woman who still sports the pigtail every now and then, I was appalled. Invisalign encourages parents to buy their product so that their children may exude confidence while going through one of the most uncomfortable, painful, and sometimes disgusting stages of many an adolescence- teeth straightening. As a still-undecided-but-it-isn't-completely-off-the-table future mother of America, this ad solidified for me how I will not raise my possible future daughter and the decision is already set-if she has crooked teeth, she's getting braces. Real ones.


 I think our daughters should be taught confidence, not based on their looks, but on just about everything else. The Invisalign-wearing teen represented in the commercial knows no humility, no kindness toward her twin and, let's face it, is probably one year away from becoming the high school's most popular whore. If I ever have a daughter, I want her in pigtails and braces until she finishes grad school. I want her to care about others, to exude kindness and, when that kindness doesn't work, I want her to sass and kick the hell out of some overly confident teen bitch with a video camera, even if it is her sister. (Though, it won't be. Seriously, no hot bitches living under my roof.) I want her to wear her "dorky" hair and embrace her flaws with so much pride that is scares and intimidates everyone she meets. I want her to be her and real, and I want her to relish life's simply joys- like popcorn for instance. I want her to know that, if careful, that salty snack absolutely can be enjoyed by a kid with braces. Just brush and floss properly afterward.


And always brush your tongue. That's important.

If apes can do sign language...

...then certainly we can solve this looming problem.

Having toilets that flush automatically is an astounding privilege, and you are abusing it. It's as if we take for granted that we have usable hands or some shit. Since the beginning of the automatic toilet's creation, I have seen hundreds, thousands, probably millions of public bowls sullied with yellow-brown water, wads of toilet paper, menstrual blood, you name it. Often times I give the pissers, shitters, and menstruators before me the benefit of the doubt and assume, "That thing must be broken."

There are signs behind most of these toilets next to buttons that read "Press to flush." I always give the button the old college try because I do not care to add my urine to the existing muck so someone else can gaze upon all those natural colors. Nine times out of ten, the waste flushes down to where it needs to be--out of fucking sight. Am I the only person who can read these signs? No. You are just lazy and nasty

People of Earth who use public restrooms, I implore you! You are not kings and queens. I know this because monarchs do not frequent toilets at stadiums and airports. If they did they would probably have an assistant accompany them in order to take care of Royal Flush anyway. (You're welcome.) If the automatic mechanism does not work you should have the damn decency to flush the fucking commode.

Let me put it this way. If you walked up to an automatic door that did not open upon your arrival, would you not shop at that grocery store? Would you just stand there like the little dog from that episode of Two Stupid Dogs I loved so much? No. You'd push. It takes more manpower to push open a door than it does to push the tiny button on these new-fangled toilets that aren't so much a novelty in this day and age as they are an expectation. Button pushing is satisfying as hell! We push buttons repeatedly throughout the day while sitting at computers or communicating via text. We love pushing buttons. Think of it as a game. Think back to when you were potty training and you loved to watch your business spiral into what seemed like an alternate universe. Better yet, think of your fellow man, the person who has to come into the stall behind you. That person could be me, and I do not care to view your fecal matter.

So remember- if you piss or shit in town and the automatic flush don't come 'round, flush it down.

Life is a cancer. A wonderful, glorious cancer.

I will begin this post by stating that I am fine. I am going to be okay. Typically, I am opposed to sharing something so personal via the web unless, of course, it's hilarious. Inspiration struck about an hour ago and, though you may be reading this after several days have passed and I've begun to regret the decision to be so open, I promise to leave this posted because it is important information.

Cancer is a terrifying thing and, even though I've known people to die from and overcome it, I have never thought about it beyond the scope of its mere existence. As a young buck (Actually, I suppose I'm a doe.) no one imagines they'll have to seek an answer to that dreaded question- Is it cancer? The term "cancer scare" now has a whole new meaning to me.

Luckily, when I discovered my body's latest...uh...development, I was a week away from an already scheduled appointment. I spent one agonizing weekend worrying that I could be knocking on death's door. After that appointment, where I was told I was not allowed to worry or stress which did not work, I was referred to Stroger hospital. As a newly insured American citizen, I did not have a regular doctor to see and all recommended physicians had mile-long waiting lists.

Another agonizing couple of days. A trip to the ER because, apparently, that's how you start things at Stroger. Initially, I was told that my insurance would not cover the cost of the ER visit to which I responded, "You mean I have to pay out the ass and jump through hoops to find out I'm not dying of cancer?" I don't know if it was my talent for being extremely blunt when I am scared or the tears I shed that won over the administrator's heart, but she personally walked down to Stroger's financial services office to make certain I was covered. I was. Considering I would have left without treatment had I not been, I am grateful for this woman and glad that I terrified her.

Hours later, I was sitting on a cold table in the emergency room, my heart pounding out of my chest, the nurse asks, "What brings you in today?"

"Um. I found something. In my breast. I want to make sure it's not cancer."

My voice was shaky. I was timid. It was the first time I'd said it aloud to anyone while looking them in the face, and I wanted to handle this with discretion. (I'd handle it publicly later.) She made some notes on my chart, told me the doctor would be in shortly and, closing the door behind her as she exited, shouted, "IT'S HER BREAST!" So much for being discrete. The doctor came in, felt of the thing, said, "Yep," and scheduled me for another appointment. More worry. More stress. Another appointment at a clinic that had clearly not been remodeled since the late 70's. Still no answers. This happened twice more before my favorite doctor throughout this entire process said, "I'm going to stick a needle in this."

These words should have terrified me but, on the contrary, they gave me a bit of relief. Not to go into too much detail but sticking a needle into this sucker could tell her whether or not it was a cyst or something much more sinister. Favorite doctor (Should have learned her name)set up an appointment for an ultrasound, which meant there would be more waiting. The thing I had was indeed a cyst but, as she put it creepily, "There could be something lurking behind it." I was given my choice of bandaid- "Barbie, peace sign, princess frog, or Disney princesses?" - for the spot on my ta-ta where I'd been pierced with a needle. Wasn't this a place for, I don't know, adults?

"Uh...peace sign?"

Upon seeing my psychedelic bandage, I contemplated doing a ton of flashing that day, but I didn't.

For the ultrasound appointment one month later, I sat in a mammography clinic full of women where the receptionist used always gross to hear, "Ma'am?" whenever she needed anyone's attention. Because, when you're in a room full of thirty women, that's the easiest way to single out a specific individual. I kept telling myself to find the comedy in this situation, so I was grateful this woman existed and that her method was so piss poor. I sat in my chair and played with my new, pink breast cancer awareness pen until my name was called. Worry.

I saw the ultrasound tech. She asked if I'd ever had an ultrasound before and, after a game of "Who's on first?" we both understood that I had not. She spread the goop on me and looked at the cloudy abyss that is the inside of my body. It occurred to me how I'd always imagined my first ultrasound. I never thought I would be nervous about it. Happy would have been more like it. I kept hoping she would say, "It's not cancer, Casey. You're just pregnant...in your boob." I don't particularly want a baby at this stage in life, but at least I'd know what to do with one. How do you nurture a cancer? Instead of giving me any feedback, however, she said, "You'll have to see the doctor. He'll be here in about thirty minutes. Please get dressed and go back out to the waiting room." Great. Another half an hour of waiting, more goop, and finally! The ultrasound confirmed that Favorite Doctor was correct. This was a cyst and, most importantly, it was not sinister and there was nothing lurking beyond it. I didn't have cancer. A weight was lifted from my shoulders.

I've been to Stroger once since the ultrasound for a follow up. I will have to go back in six months just to make sure everything is okay. In the past four months, I have had about ten medical appointments. There's a reason why I am eager to see the end of this year. I'm tired of cold exam tables and paper gowns. All things considered, I am grateful for those appointments because they gave me peace of mind and put the rest of my year into perspective. In the past twelve months I have:

-Written, co-produced and performed in my own one-person show
-Attempted and survived stand-up comedy many times
-Been a storyteller
-Said goodbye to one great roommate and friend but gained a new great roommate in a two week span
-Started work on two other plays as well as mapped out plans for a sketch revue
-Started a brand new job at Second City- a place I've loved and worshiped since way before I knew I would make Chicago my home

Everything I experienced this year caused me stress and worry. My first thought when I found this thing was that everything had been a waste. Of course I'd get cancer after a couple of months of finally feeling settled and fulfilled. Why wouldn't I? And how great of me to be a worrier all my life? I had ruined perfectly good days of living by being freaked out that my shoes were dirty, or my mom had a headache, or my windshield wipers needed to be replaced. Now, here I was, at the potential end of my life, and I would fret about what was killing me. A few weeks into the process, I realized that stress and worry were in fact my strongest motivators, because they kept me going back for answers. I had to make certain I was well, to eliminate that stress because I still had work to do. Fun to have. Stress to manage. Things to make and other stupid shit to worry about.

Thinking you could have cancer makes you appreciate the following:

*Production schedules
*Comedy
*Theatre
*Music
*Friends who sit with you in the ER and buy you giant Hello Kitty dolls
*Moms, grandmothers, aunts, and best friends who listen as you cry into the phone and offer words of encouragement
*Roommates who make you laugh and make you food
*Boyfriends who know the importance of wine and strong shoulders
*Love, as gross as it is
*Planned Parenthood
*Gchat
*Fucking Lifetime movies
*Harry Potter, especially those last two movies. Glad I lived to see those!
*Work, but not too much work
*Sitting on the stoop watching your neighbors interact with their dogs and children
*Beer
*Fat cats
*Peace sign bandaids
*Text messages from my dad about weird last names he heard
*Slamming my thumb in a car door
*This pad thai that I am currently eating
*Trips to New York
*and football

I'm just kidding about that last one, but I think that's a pretty stellar list. I used to believe that I would be famous by now. I thought I would be selling out shows on Broadway, starring in major motion pictures, creating brilliant art that spoke to the world, and/or publishing novels that set the world on fire. I haven't done any of those things. At the end of the day, I am just a lady who does regular stuff and makes things she hopes people will like. I'm not saying I'll never stress over little things or where my life is headed. I believe I can attribute 80% of my personality to the presence of stress in my life and how I handle it. (I deal with it like a crazy person, by the way.) Most importantly, though, stress means I'm alive. It means I have a life. Even if I'm not where I thought I would be, I am someplace good even if I don't always remember that.

I guess what I'm trying to say is I'm glad I'm not dying? Not at an accelerated speed anyway. I have a new understanding and respect for those who have lived with cancer. I get it. The fear is palpable even if you don't have it. Getting yourself checked is important, ladies. Peace of mind is everything! I am incredibly lucky to be out of the woods and surrounded by supportive people. Instead of worrying about my day-to-day stress, I'm going to embrace it and then move past it. You'll probably hear me bitch a lot. Just remind me in times like that, friends, that I am not sick, it's just a bad day. Also, remind me that I once had a ten-day vacation...which I should be packing for at this very moment instead of writing this. Fuck.

The Muppets. I mean, come on, guys! So good!

As a child of the 80's, I expected to like this movie. I did not, however, expect to fall in love with it.

The script is perfect. There was probably no better way to reintroduce the world to the beloved Muppets than by calling out the fact that we seem to have forgotten about their brilliance over the past couple of decades. I've been saying it for years, and I appreciate this movie for saying it as well: Today's idea of entertainment for children is watered down, idiotic, and probably turning our future leaders into morons. These are the people who will be taking care of you when you're old. Treat children with respect. They're smart. Also, it wouldn't kill you to write family films that (Here's a novel idea!) the entire family can actually enjoy, would it? Clearly, according to what I saw this weekend, it can be done. I'm an adult, but I laughed and cried my way through this entire movie and plan on seeing it again. My best friend's 3 year old son, also a fan. I'm sure my grandmother would enjoy it as well. I know my parents would! So...there's that.

The music killed me. The direction was stellar. Why? Because two of the people responsible for the Flight of the Conchords success had their hands all up in this thing. James Bobin and Bret McKenzie, take a bow.

Jason Segel, what can I say? I love you. I love you to pieces, and you should be proud. (He's not really reading this, but this is what I would say to him if he walked into the room right now. Chill out.) What better person to bring back our old friends? This project came from a genuine place of fandom which is probably why I can't say a bad thing about the film. It made me happy as hell. This proud member of the Muppets generation thanks you, and you've found a forever fan in me.

And, to our newest Muppet, Walter: Welcome! No cousin Oliver/Scrappy Doo syndrome here. Thank sweet shit for that. Walter is just as delightful, charming, and lovable as Kermit, Fozzie, Beaker, Animal, Miss Piggy, the Swedish Chef, Janice, Gonzo, Sweetums...do you get where I'm going with this?

Today's brilliance.

Sometimes comedy writes itself, and sometimes Perez Hilton inadvertently writes it for you.

This is not real.

Are you kidding me? Facebook users actually believe that a surgeon sat down with a family and said, "Your son is in need of a heart transplant. The surgery will cost you upwards of one hundred and forty-five thousand dollars. But, hold on! Don't cry, Mrs. Waters. Have I got a deal for you! If you act now and take a sad photo of your child hooked up to life support and post it on Facebook, and if one hundred people share that picture, I'll do the surgery for free. I'm just that nice of a guy. Whadya say?! One hundred shares. That's all I'm asking. That's less than the dollar amount. I really need this to happen. I love Facebook sharing. It's my drug. Make it happen."

Bullshit.

Why should you respect your techie or stage manager?

Think about it. They don't get a bow. They do not get reviewed. They do not receive applause. Rarely will the average audience member or critic rave about the props, the set, the lighting, or the sound. A technician's job is often thankless and, this may cause a few pairs of undies to bunch, some may argue they even work harder than you do, dear actors. Yes, that's right. There is a reason why it is easier to find a paid stage manager than a wealthy performer in Chicago. There is a reason why you point to the booth during the curtain call. It isn't to stave off some old superstition.It is to direct the audience's attention to the person behind the glass, the man behind the curtain. A long time ago, some person (perhaps it was a director) had the brilliant idea to make it customary because actors, while basking in the glow of audience affection or the stage lighting that makes them look oh, so pretty, would most likely forget to do so. The performer who does not appreciate and thank his or her technicians (And understudies, dammit! Even talented people get explosive diarrhea at inopportune moments.) deserve a literal leg break.

Do not disrespect those who are in a position to truly at the helm of your little show. And, by the way, to ignore is to disrespect. You may receive most of the glory, but the show is in your technicians' hands. Your stage managers should be considered gods. They have the power the cut the lights at any time. Perhaps when you're exiting down a flight of stairs...

Think about it, pretty assholes.

On a very special episode of CSI...

I call this photo 'Make Out Point' or...'Where the Body Was Found'

All things I find difficult to do with this smashed thumb: a list

-Typing this list
-Everything else

Sometimes, I think.

I was only nine when I realized how quickly life can change. I had never lost a grandparent, never buried a pet. My parents had divorced the year prior and, though that did have some impact on my life, I can't say I was in much of a mourning phase at the time. Perhaps things were just too rocky towards the end of that marriage for me to view that split as an unwelcome development. Or, perhaps I was a kid. All I knew were the facts. My uncle Jeffrey was just 23 years old. He was young, smart, sarcastic, funny, and he loved 80's pop music. He was sick. And then, just like that, he was gone.

This isn't some story about my uncle's death or how I went to my first funeral or a cheap way for me to get attention and sympathy for something that happened two decades ago. Though, now that I've written that out, I cannot believe that much time has passed. I can't say that the death of my uncle was the most painful or only loss that I would suffer. When I was 17, my younger stepbrother was accidentally killed. When I was Jeffrey's age I not only experienced firsthand how incredibly young that feels, especially when it comes to the subject of dying, that was also the year I lost my 28 year old cousin abruptly. One year later, my great grandmother passed. The year after that, another cousin was killed in a car accident. There were family friends who were killed suddenly. I watched my parents divorce from their respective second spouses, I fell in and out of touch with people I'd known as constants in my life, I watched my mother battle addiction and lose time and time again, and then things just seemed to even out.

As all of it was happening around me, I knew,

"Casey Gayle, this is a tough pill to swallow. Nothing lasts forever."

And when I stood amongst my peers, a group of youthful, idealistic dreamers who thought and believed we had our entire lives in front of us, my knowledge of time's ability to zip by in an instant and change your reality and my unfortunate familiarity with the finality of death made me an outcast. I was, in many ways, an old woman trapped in a young body. But I knew one thing to be true- the fire in my gut was not indigestion, it was a desire to go, to be, to do, and to become. I set out to prove I could be anything I wanted to be and, having dealt with what I'd dealt with, I was pretty cocky about it. Terrified, yes, but I'd found that most overly- confident fuckers are scared out of their minds anyway. The fear was nothing more than a motivator.

Moving was in my blood. My mother and I lived in more houses in my youth than most people even visited in their lifetime, so I knew I could pack up and go. All I had to do was search and I would find what I needed. My path took me across the country not once, but twice. Alone. The minute I got settled into a "daily grind", I had to move on. I was going to be the greatest success my small Georgia town had ever seen. I would write films, I would write books, I would write books that would be turned into to films, I would star in those films, I would marry Elijah Wood or someone equally as geeky, and I would have money to buy my remaining family members what they needed since their business went bankrupt and they didn't have very much. It was not a question of "if" but a question of "when." Every show that I did was a step toward that better future where I was an accomplished whatever the hell I was meant to be and people were intimidated by how awesome I had become. I wanted and needed to work. Sleep? Who needed it? Money for food? I'd find it. Parties with friends? Later...after rehearsal...when they were all too drunk to remember. I worked my fingers to the bone, I lost too much weight, and I lived a life full of wants. And then 2009 happened.

It wasn't as if I never expected to get another phone call like the ones I'd received in my youth. I knew it would happen again, because that is the unfortunate reality that is life. I just didn't think it would happen when I was so far away from my home, nor did I think I would experience two losses so close to one another. April of that year my grandfather passed and two months later, almost to the exact day, my grandmother on the other side of the family died quickly and suddenly. Two people with direct lines to my childhood, gone. I realized then that the death of a loved one has a completely different effect on you if you're an adult. As a child, you know it can happen. When it happens, you grieve, you send that person's soul to heaven, and you move on. As a grown-up, the pain was like a third arm. It was palpable. I could taste it. It was present in everything I saw and did. It took over my spirit for months and made me question everything about myself. What did I want out of life?

I came out of that a different person. I wouldn't say I'm any weaker, though stronger doesn't seem quite right either. My life did take on new meaning. I started to take root in Chicago. For the first time, I really felt I had a home away from home. Visions of moving off to LA and New York vanished from my mind. This is where I came to find out new things, and this is where I would stay. My goals didn't change, but my approach did. I backed off. I started seeing things right in front of me and taking them at face value: I have a job that I do not like. That needs to change today. I'm not doing the shows I want to do or getting the roles I think I deserve. That needs to change today. I am not acknowledging other people's birthdays or special events like I should. That needs to change today. Everything I saw, everything I felt, everything I believed, it was happening to me and it was happening today. I couldn't say what or where I would be tomorrow, because that was not something I was guaranteed as a human being. I simply had today. So, what would I do with it?

I still only have today. I still live part of my life on pins and needles waiting for news-both good and bad. But I slowed down for today. I can't spend countless hours working towards something that is not guaranteed to be mine tomorrow if I don't even have tomorrow's contract signed and in my hand. It shocks me to this day that those deaths had that impact on my work ethic. The very thing that sped me up and made me a workaholic in my youth slowed me down when I got older. I hold onto goals and dreams, and sometimes those wants and desires are much larger than my willingness to do and to work. I still put forth an effort and I try to "make something of myself" even if I'm not sure what the fuck that means half the time. But I do my best to do what I want to do, when I want to do it. At times, the thought of not having a tomorrow causes me to cling to people, to panic about my current day and worry I won't get things done. But, I have to take a step back and look at life like this: You spend the first few years of your life wrapped up safely in someone's arms. As you develop and grow, you are thrust out into a world that can be cruel and unforgiving. It can scar you. But, if you can end your life wrapped in that same security, whether it's the arms of a friend, a significant other, or someone you've helped in some way, then how can life really be so bad? How can all of the trivial nonsense we bitch about on a daily basis because we're spoiled American brats really matter? If you can't be certain you'll reach the first half of tomorrow, why spend the last half of today consumed with regret and worry?

As artists, as 20 and 30-somethings, as people, we long for what is right around the corner. We beat ourselves up if things don't go our way. We criticize and judge ourselves based on how successful we've become, how much money they make, how many expensive trips we can afford. What if we just cut ourselves some slack? What if we gave ourselves some fucking peace? What if, just once, we sat on the front stoop and caught up with an old friend? What if we made it a point to do that every day? What if we relished in the little things? Would that get us to the goals of tomorrow any faster? Most likely not. But, it would really sweeten our existence today.

Girl talk

Meghan: I really like your ring.
Me:Thanks! You know, I don't know where I got this ring. You would think a ring THIS big, I would recall getting it, but I don't. I mean...maybe it was a gift...
Meghan: Maybe you stole it.
Me: Right! Maybe I just lifted it as a rebellious teen.
Nicole: Perhaps you made it.
Me: Yeah. I mean, perhaps it was forged in the fires of Mount Doom. Who's to say?
Meghan: That ring may have evil powers.
Me: It must be destroyed.