I AM A FEMALE CREATOR. PLEASE DON’T HATE ME.

I love to be in charge. For a long time I carried this truth around like a secret shame. Girls are supposed to shake their bossiness not lean into it. I should be a team player. I should know how to work well with others. I should collaborate. At 29, I can finally do all of those things relatively well. But you know where I really shine? When I’m in charge. I fucking love it. Being in charge doesn’t mean you are always right. Or that you are more talented than those around you. It just means you’re the one steering the ship. The final decisions falls on you. You’re taking all the smaller parts and fitting them together to create something whole. It also means you get to decide when everyone goes home. Which is probably one of the best perks since I love to go to bed early. For the first few years of my career, I was in a very public partnership with my best friend, Gaby Dunn. We had a popular YouTube channel together. We wrote a book. We sold a few TV shows that never got made. It was thrilling and rewarding and it also drove me just a little bit insane. I am not meant to have a writing partner. I am too controlling and picky and I hate the feeling of someone reading over my shoulder. I would spend hours in therapy trying to figure out why I felt all of this resentment and angry toward someone who helped launch the career I so desperately wanted. And it boiled down to this…you guessed it: I love being in charge. So I had to follow my truth. When Gaby and I work together in the future I need clean delineations of who is doing what and I desperately need my own projects. My manager was not thrilled with this idea. Gaby and I were the commodity. Not just me. So I had to have a lot of really uncomfortable conversations. Where I looked like a selfish bad guy, whose ego was getting in the way of a good thing. But I did it anyway. I pushed through the doubt and self-judgment and vocalized what I wanted. And both my manager and Gaby are still talking to me. They even got me birthday gifts! The best thing, by far, to come out of embracing my controlling nature is my new scripted podcast GOSSIP. It’s a 12-episode comedic soap opera that I wrote, directed and star in. I had an incredible team around me from producers to writers to sound engineers but Stitcher gave me a truly remarkable amount of creative control. It’s the first big project that’s completely my own. And putting it out there was fucking terrifying. This is my podcast. If people don’t like it, there is no one to shift the blame on. I can’t think, “Well if they had only let me do it this way” because for once I was finally allowed to do it my way. I steered the ship from beginning to end. If this thing crashes, it’s all on me. And do you know what? That’s okay. Because it was worth the journey. I ran a writers room. I directed talent who are far more seasoned than me. I sat for hours listening to cuts and politely demanding they replace one single word with another take. I had a blast. So here’s what I’ve learned: If you treat people with respect, it’s okay to go after what you want even if the idea might make you feel icky at first. If you want to be the boss, go for it. Be the best boss you can be! Just make sure everyone is home at a reasonable hour. Also, please listen to GOSSIP. It’s available everywhere podcasts are found including YouTube. More information at gossippodcast.com. Self-promotion makes me feel really icky too but you know what? You have to do it!

WHAT’S THE DEAL WITH DAVE?

I’ve always been an oversharer. A lot of that comes from my OCD and pure inability to not answer any question directly, honestly and with too much detail. Secrets often feel like a lie to me and I would rather lay it all out there than worry I’ve been misleading. (This flaw works both ways. Nothing annoys me more than people who won’t immediately answer my inappropriately personal questions.) I’ll frequently tell a harmless anecdote only to quickly recount it, paranoid it might have been a dream. I am an open book without a publisher. But, lately, something has changed. While I used to spend hours on end talking about my dating life with anyone who would listen, recently I’ve dodged the topic. I rush through conversations, talking only about work or my dog, desperate to make it to the finish line or the check without someone asking the most dreaded question of all: “What’s the deal with Dave*?” (*Name has been slightly changed out of respect and fear.) Dave is “the guy I’m seeing.” For the first year of our relationship, he was my “boyfriend.” And for the past three months he has been “the topic I will avoid at any cost.” This sense of dread is new to me. I have never been an evasive person. Trained to spill my guts in therapy since the age of four, I take pride in being extremely in touch with my feelings: even when ignorance might be bliss. (Once, as a toddler, I told my mother, “I need to see a doctor. Something inside of me is making me sad.” Tragic. I know. But also, so insightful!) I have never before had trouble talking about the ugly sides of my life. On the contrary, I am starting to make a living from it. But something about the situation with Dave is different. And the big difference isn’t anything flashy or shocking, but underwhelming and vague. For the first time, I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know what I want. And I don’t know what to do. I am completely floundering. I don’t know how to talk about it because I don’t yet know how it ends and no one should ever tell a joke without a punch line. (All of my relationships are jokes. At least on some level.) I know what you’re thinking (Mom). You have to talk about things to figure them out. Talk to your friends. Talk to your family. Talk to Dave. Well guess, what? I’ve done that. Endlessly. And I still don’t know what I think or feel. And sure, that’s fine for some buttoned-up Midwesterner who has never been in touch with her feelings in the first place, but my feelings are my currency. In spite of my daily rollercoaster of emotion, I can take (too much) pride in being self-aware. (You can never be truly crazy if you know that you’re crazy, right? Right?) So on top of feeling completely lost in what appears to be some sort of long-term relationship, I feel lost in myself. (Which is weird because I’m still talking about the rest of my life endlessly.) Here’s another dirty secret/omission. There is a lot of shame that comes with anything other than a heart-filled relationship where you celebrate every third Thursday “just because” with your supportive, attractive partner. It’s 2016 and to date anyone other than that special someone who “treats you like the queen you are” is pathetic. It subtly signals to everyone that you don’t respect yourself enough and you certainty shouldn’t be a role model to young girls on the Internet. But sometimes I’m not a queen. Sometimes I am insufferable and petty and don’t deserve to be catered to. Sometimes I’m too resentful to treat him like the queen he is. Sometimes neither one of us is right. So what do I do? I still have no fucking idea. For the last few years, I’ve been grappling with “the right amount of happy.” How do you know when you’re settling and how do you know when you’re being unrealistic? Some people say “when you know, you know,” but those people are too unabashedly happy for me to properly identify with. The only thing I know is that I know nothing. And maybe that’s OK. Maybe it’s okay for me to sit in this uncertainty for a bit. I got a dog for behavioral therapy. Why not engage in the romantic unknown for a few more months? As someone who has always had to live in the black and white, boyfriend or just friend, a part of me is proud that I haven’t forced this issue of Dave. I’m growing and expanding and becoming more like all those other people who won’t answer my god damn questions. So what’s the deal with Dave? I don’t know. Ask him.

How To Get What You Want While Pissing Everyone Offf

I don’t know how to get what I want without looking like a bitch. I wish this wasn’t true, but after years of working for myself and creating content, I don’t see any other way. I grew up in a house with a sign that said: “I’m sorry, my fault, I forgot you were an idiot.” My father instilled in me a strong belief that if you want something done right you have to do it yourself. I don’t even trust the post office to deliver my mail correctly. And now I have to collaborate, day in, day out. Of course I’m going to micromanage. I’ve spent more than my share of data texting co-workers: “Just checking in” and “Please let me know if you have any questions! Seriously. Any questions at all.” The only other time I’m more desperate for a response is when I’m convinced my boyfriend is dead, which happens more often than I’d like to admit.

But here’s the thing. People mess up all the time. I wouldn’t go so far as to assume that every single person is an idiot, but if you have everyone around you giving 100% all of the time, you are probably a dictator who has instilled a fear of death and torture. And even then, there are going to be some people slacking off. I don’t really want to play the gender card here, but I think on some level it is even harder to be a woman who is making demands. We tend to get emotions attached to almost everything we do even if we are asleep. But, to be fair, people’s bossy perception of me might have absolutely nothing to with my sex organs. It might be more tied to the high octave of my voice, which I’ll admit, can be very grating. Regardless of the reason, I have a reputation of being “impossible to please” and a “control freak.” Whatever. I’ve heard worse. Just go look at the comments on my YouTube channel.

Obviously there are still moments I get upset because someone rolls their eyes at me for double-checking that we’re getting the right shot or for over explaining a deadline. But then I remember I would rather get the right shot and not miss the deadline than have everyone like me all the time. Also, it’s impossible to have everyone like you all the time. No matter how I act, I am always going to piss someone off. So I’ve decided the best I can do is act like someone who wouldn’t piss me off. How would I want someone I work with to behave? Firm but friendly. Driven but silly. Focused but well fed. (Never underestimate the importance of snacks throughout a workday.) If I can meet my own standards, then other people’s responses shouldn’t matter. Especially since I can’t control them anyway.

I recently worked on a project solely as actress. I thought, “Awesome. I can sit back and let other people run this ship while I post BTS selfies.” I ended up learning more on that set than any other because the director was a nightmare, to put it lightly. The fact that I just described her without using a curse word shows my constraint. She had a horrible attitude, yelled at everyone and made the entire crew miserable. It was a wonderful example of what not to do. I realized that there is a right way and a wrong way to get what you want. I never want anyone to feel the way about me that I felt about her, but if someone's big complaint is that I unrealisticly expect people to do their job quickly and correctly, I can live with that. Whoever is in charge sets the mood for everyone else. So I just need to be in a good mood because I love being in charge.

I’ve decided to own being bossy* (*a bitch). When I’m about to start working with someone new, I’m the first to admit that I’m a “control freak.” I giggle before I ask “another annoying question.” When everyone shares an “oh, Allison” look, I make sure I’m part of the fun. Call me a bitch all you want if that’s the term you assign to a woman who knows what she wants. I would much rather be a bitch than an idiot.

I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE AN ACTRESS

I don’t like writing bios about myself. That why my Twitter profile doesn’t provide any actual information except my love of various pop punk lyrics. My Instagram is a bit more enlightening with the sassy description “I do all of the comedy stuff my sister doesn’t understand” beneath an equally sassy selfie of me in the bathroom trying to show off a new haircut. The truth is, I don’t know exactly what I do. I went to one of the best film schools in the country and graduated with a BFA in screenwriting but I didn’t get anywhere in my career until I sat on a couch with my best friend and improvised a love advice show playing a heavily heightened version of myself. The best way I could describe the character of “Allison” on my comedy channel, “Just Between Us,” is the worst version of myself from five years ago without any self-awareness. The stories are true. The details are mostly factual, but it’s still a character, which is a technicality I didn’t think would matter as much as it does. 

Finding success on YouTube has been both the most exciting and confusing thing that has ever happened to me (other than my Bat Mitzvah). I grew up loving television, movies and books. I craved well-crafted stories and witty jokes and never watched Reality TV. I don’t need the truth, I need satisfying plot resolution. But then I found my voice in a medium that values authenticity above all else. Everything is taken at face value. Many commenters have a hard time understanding that most of my videos are scripted. Unless I am taste testing sheep’s milk or participating in a video that expressly states “real couples” or “real best friends,” I am playing a part. Sometimes that part is a version of Allison. Sometimes it’s a bitchy boss or an idiot girlfriend. I consider acting to be a craft that needs to be learned like anything else. It’s something I take seriously and hope to get better at. Over the past few years, I’ve taken scene study classes, trained at numerous improv theaters and auditioned all over the vast city of Los Angeles. So you can imagine my surprise when a fan tweeted that they had found an indie film I have a small role in and exclaimed, “I didn’t know you were an actress!” 

You always hear about actors being pigeonholed. This actress can only carry rom coms, not dramas. That actor will forever be cast as a villain. This woman will always be tied to her role in that iconic sitcom so lets make another sitcom about that very situation. While I don’t have the range of classically trained actors, I never thought I would be pigeonholed as myself. Even within Buzzfeed, I had to fight for a role in a scripted series, Colleagues, because the director was worried the audience wouldn’t understand that I was playing a character named Natalie and not Allison. To me, that’s like saying, “We can’t go see Macbeth because that same actor played Hamlet last year and that would be too confusing.” Actors don’t retire after a single role. They’re too vain. 

But to explain it that simply is to play dumb. I am not a traditional actor. My character on JBU is not a British clone who needs to save her clone sisters in an unclear country. My “character” is a girl named Allison who looks, sounds and talks just like me. It’s a similar situation to stand up comics. Their onstage persona is a part of them but it’s not the exact same as the person who walks off stage. My difficulty is trying to figure out how to “walk off stage” when my stage is the Internet. My comedy partner has warned me that we are going to be underestimated our entire careers. While I’ve grown to expect that executives and agents won’t understand the value of the Internet or the unmatched passion of its fans, it’s still hard to grapple that a lot of my audience doesn’t know that we are in control of our material. Our videos aren’t some sort of happy accident: they are the result of hard work, sweat, and tears  (although more often laughter than tears). I’ve shared so much of myself creatively, I want to share even more without feeling like I am letting people down for not being completely myself all the time. I guess what I’m asking for is an expanded definition of authenticity. Even though many things I’m going to make will not be true to my actual off-screen life, anything I create is still a part of me and it ultimately comes from a place of truth. Except my British accent. That’s just terrible. 

 P.S. All of my tweets are jokes. It just seems like a good time to clarify that too.

HAPPILY EVER NOPE

“I think I love him. But it’s not a big deal. I fall in love very easily,” I realized as I drove to see my new boyfriend a few months ago. I was plagued with guilt. It was my third relationship in a year and I no longer trusted my instincts or my plan for a fairytale love story. I’ve been a romantic since birth. Proposal stories thrill me and I squeal when two characters kiss on screen for the first time. If I’ve ever been in the same room with you, I know whether or not you are wearing a wedding ring. Sometimes I cry when I see someone eating alone at a restaurant. Nothing makes me sadder than the possibility of a person never finding their lobster.* (*Friends reference. Ross and Rachel forever.)

I’ve always equated happiness with marriage. My parents are best friends. They are eternal partners who crack each other up. For a girl who felt lonely and misunderstood most of her life, nothing spelled success more than finding a life-long buddy. You would never get lost at the mall because someone was always looking for you. Plus, you got to kiss a lot. It’s a win-win.

I remember the first time I switched my Facebook to “In A Relationship.” I sat in my dorm room and clicked back and forth between my page and his. It was more thrilling than an amusement park. I was tied to someone. Publicly! The relationship lasted two months. Flash forward to that summer and I was flying to Texas to stay with my next boyfriend’s family. Watch out world! Things were getting serious! By that fall, I was single again and plunging into a two-year depression. But then something finally happened my senior year. I fell in love with an amazing guy, and for the first time, he actually loved me back. My plan was working. I had a date to my sister’s wedding. I had a best friend who called me his girlfriend. I, eventually, moved into a one-bedroom apartment with him. Approximately sixteen weeks later, he moved out and I had to revisit the dating scene at the ripe age of 23. 

I took some time off. I learned to be alone again. I prepared myself for the next guy. I now knew what I needed to be happy. It was naïve to think that my first long-term relationship would lead to marriage. All interesting people have baggage. I now had one large suitcase and a bunch of purses. I was ready to put everything down and settle into the rest of my life. Except the next guy wasn’t right or nice or funny. So I tried to cover up the pain of the break up with a new guy, who was very nice and funny but “not for me.” “Not for me” is a term I could not have even tried to explain before experiencing that bizarre tingling in your stomach that isn’t butterflies but nervous ants trying to alert you to an unexplainable problem. That is a big lesson in dating: not all problems need to be explainable. If that concept doesn’t sit well with you, blame it on timing or pheromones. Just make sure you get out. 

2014 had started out as the year of new beginnings, but suddenly I was two break-ups in and it wasn’t even Thanksgiving. In addition to being devastated, I was exhausted. My career is the opposite of stable. I wanted one part of my life to be figured out. Cue Boyfriend Number Six a few months later. He was (is) smart, funny, and mostly nice. Great. Super. When are we going to break up?

I don’t know if jaded is the right way to describe my approach to this relationship but it’s pretty fucking close. Everything I’ve experienced with him, I’ve already experienced with someone else. Unless he becomes my husband, he will never be my “first” anything. My friends and family have already had to “get to know” what feels like a parade of guys. I’ve already perfected my break-up playlist. I’ve already shared my deepest secrets. Each time they lose some of their power. My cousin recently asked, “Is he temporary?” I replied, “Probably. They all seem to be.” If that feels cold hearted, then I’m doing my job. I’m actively weaning myself of the belief that this guy could be “the one,” because my heart can’t take another surprise ending that fades out on me throwing out his toothbrush. 

Last week, I texted my best friend, “Déjà vu.” I was standing with my current boyfriend in a bowling alley that I had only ever previously visited with the two that came before him. She replied, “Run.” I considered it. What’s the point of putting the time into something that will more likely than not end in heartbreak? When we have a great day together, a part of me secretly laments that I will have to burn it from my memory the moment we break up. I never thought I would be the type of person with one foot out the door. 

But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe my desire to instantly lock down my previous relationships with a death grip is what caused all the air to rush out of them. I’m no longer planning future trips that will need to be refunded if everything falls apart. I’m not picturing him in my life a year from now. I’m not breathing a false sigh of relief because I have finally found my lobster. For all I know, my lobster might be across the country trading stocks. He could be down the hall from my apartment waiting for me to bump into him. Or he could be the guy who currently calls me his girlfriend and recently told his friend that we will probably be together for a while because “we get along well.” His guess is as good as mine.

#RELATABLE

“You look like that girl in 50 Shades Of Grey.” 

I never know how to respond to this seemingly innocuous comment. If I responded honestly, people would stare and wonder why that girl who looks like Anastasia Steele is shouting and throwing her arms around. Intellectually, I understand people’s desire to equate everything in their life with past experiences. It’s how we make sense of the zillion of stimuli floating around and crashing into us. I can buy this dress because it is the shape of my other dress but not the same color. This boy makes me feel sad like that boy so I should probably move on so as not to re-experience that terrible feeling. This ice tea tastes like fish. I don’t like fish. I will stop drinking this tea. 

Apparently for many people, my face equates with a very boring BDSM movie and more specifically the actress, Dakota Johnson. I also look like that girl in your biology class and basically any brunette with bangs. My Instagram is flooded with “I thought this was you!” followed by a 15 year old girl’s handle. Part of me knows it’s a good thing that my face sparks any sort of reaction. There is a much worse reality wherein people see my face and instantly forget it. Instead, people seem to be taking my face and rearranging it into a variety of possibilities. My aunt recently sent me a link to a Saks commercial and asked, “Is this you?” My own family member examined an entirely different person and thought, “Yep, that’s Allison.” My roommate chased down a waitress in France because she thought our resemblance was so uncanny it required a photo. People constantly insist that they know me even though we have never met. This makes me want to throw up. 

All I wanted growing up was to fit in. I wanted to seem normal and popular. I wanted to be like everyone else. Now that I’m adult, I feel compelled to shout: “I’m different! I’m irreplaceable! I have a specific point of view!” The scary part is that this is not true. My experiences are very similar to other peoples’. In my 25 years on Earth, I have never felt something that no one else has felt. The closest I have come to a completely unique experience is dancing in my bathroom alone to The Veronicas in 2015. But now they suddenly have a new single so I can’t even claim that as my own anymore.

A large part of me knows that my excessive relatability is not only a good thing; it’s vital for my success. In order to be a writer/actress/comedian/terrible dancer, I need to be tapped into the human experience. I need to know what it’s actually like to get my heart broken. I need to love my mother and my best friend unconditionally. I need to look at my body with fear and then with love and then with fear again. I thought my experience with OCD as a toddler marked me for life. But it only marked me in a way that made me identifiable to thousands of other young girls who are or have gone through the same thing. This is an incredibly powerful thing that I would not give up for anything other than exorbitant amounts of money and maybe bigger boobs. Yet, despite my intellectual appreciation of my shared knowledge, part of me stings whenever someone discovers my twitter feed and declares, “Allison and I are the exact same person.” What? Really? Random strangers have thought all of my thoughts? They find the same things funny and terrifying? They also have bangs? Who am I anymore? Do I even exist? 

In addition to increased vanity, one of the hardest parts of putting yourself out there online is retaining a sense of self. Sometimes my personal identity gets swept up in commenters summarizing who they think I am. I see myself as one way but you see me as you and I don’t even know you so how can I know myself? It’s a rabbit hole of nonsense and fear. Fear that I’m not special. There it is. That’s the heart of the matter. If I look like every other brunette and I say everything you’ve already said, how can I be special? How will I beat anyone out for that role or sell that script? How will I make a guy marry me instead of her? Anything that’s mass produced loses it’s value. 

So what do I do? Do I dye my hair and change my clothes? Do I rebel against this person I’ve worked so hard to become? No. I honestly don’t have the energy. Instead, I will try to shift my attitude and remember my younger self who wanted so badly to camouflage into the other girls around her. The next time someone writes, “I think I’m Allison,” I’ll smile because that person doesn’t need to be my competition. Instead, she or he can be an extension of me. Another addition to a growing gang of characters who worry about nothing and joke about suicide. As the gang of neurotic, bad dancers grows, so will I. As we get stronger and more sure of ourselves, maybe we can even takeover this place together. And no one will even remember Anastasia Steele. 

I’m Big On Social Media

      The other day I posted something on my personal Facebook and watched in horror as no one liked it. Full disclosure: a couple of people liked it. But after a few months of working at Buzzfeed (an international media company), I have become Internet spoiled. Before I started my job, I had about three Instagram pictures and five tweets, one of which was a stock picture of a penguin. It personally didn’t make any sense for me post into the void. Sure, I was a comedian in Los Angeles but I could never even wrangle enough people to attend a bringer stand-up show. Who was going to give a shit about my attempt at one liners and snap-shots of my pedicure? I faced enough rejection in my attempt at a career. I couldn’t take anymore. 

      But then something amazing happened. I suddenly had a full-time, creative job that gave me access to millions of people. My face was showing up in people’s newsfeed and it wasn’t just in the form of a desperate plea for someone to come to a comedy show. With the encouragement of my best friend, an online guru, I started to tweet. I started to post pictures. I started to take part in all the social media that had been happening without me for years. What’s even crazier? People actually cared. I remember sitting at breakfast alone, during my Christmas family vacation, plotting out how many followers I wanted and setting goals for myself in the next year. If I could just get to this number, my film degree would be validated. I would no longer be one of thousands of creative people floating around in Los Angeles without anything of substance to hold onto. I had followers. I had a fan base. I had a goddamn fan page. Me. The girl who dropped out of her sorority because she didn’t have any friends. I felt victorious as the sun warmed my face. It barely bothered me that I was eating alone while the rest of my family was spread throughout a resort. I was no longer myself, I was an Internet presence. 

      Here’s the thing. I’m not actually “famous.” Compared to movie stars and politicians, my follower base is minimal. Sure, if someone of my parent’s generation stumbled upon my Twitter account they would assume that I was doing something of significance with my life to gain 20,000 followers, but they would still have no idea who I am. Because here’s the other thing: followers don’t actually matter. Great content matters. Being a good person matters. Throwing away all your trash matters. Follower count does not directly correlate with your value as a person. But it’s hard to always remember that. 

     Sometimes I text my friends and they don’t text back. But I never post an Instagram picture without what feels like an immediate influx of likes and comments. It’s an easy feeling to get addicted to. I have nothing to do on a Friday night? Fuck you, I have over 50,000 Instagram followers. The problems in my daily life no longer matter if I can get more strangers to notice me. It’s a bizarre phenomenon that has had negative and positive influences on this 25-year-old version of me. For years I felt like no one wanted what I was putting out. Now all I need to do is snap a slightly blurry shot of my new haircut and it doesn’t matter as much that my scripts aren’t getting made. All those terrible open mics are slowly washed away with every retweet of a recycled stand up joke. I have grown more confident in the past six months than ever before, and I’m not even seeing my therapist anymore! When I feel like giving up I don’t because these incredible young girls from all over the world are telling me that what I do helps them and makes them laugh. That is an incredible feeling and I never want it to go away. 

      What I do want to go away is my incessant checking of a new post as soon as it goes up. I want to stop keeping track of every new follower and comparing it to the numbers on my friends’ profiles. I want to stand by a tweet I think is funny even if it doesn’t immediately get a bunch of likes. I want to live in the moment. I want to be happy and fulfilled and nice. I basically want all of the same things I wanted before I dove headfirst into the social media game. As the numbers on my accounts change, I need to remember who I am: a slightly unstable comic who will never take #OOTD seriously. Unless, of course, someone pays me to do it. Hashtag Unfiltered.

AM I A BAD PERSON? CAN WE TAKE A POLL?

I just got in a fight with my mom, sister and brother-in-law because I said I wanted to volunteer with old people. I should probably give some sort of background so you don’t automatically assume that my whole family hates old people (although my sister’s reaction might have involved an “ew”). I came up with this idea because I have been feeling guilty lately. I don’t have a day job and even though I spend many hours a day writing there are still many more hours of the day to fill, which leaves me feeling idle, privileged and bored. I know that I am beyond lucky that I am in a position to pursue my dream (i.e. write on a television show in case anyone important is reading this), but I often feel selfish for not struggling in the trenches to pay rent or graduate with a PhD in something inherently useful. I tend to feel like a waste of space and I thought spending an hour a week keeping someone company might combat that feeling.

Apparently, I was alone in that reasoning. Both my mother and sister jumped in through a malfunctioning speaker phone to tell me that I don’t need to set aside a specific time to “be a good person,” clocking in hours of potential agony to justify my lifestyle.  Instead they encouraged me to focus on being present and positively engaging with everyone I meet. My sister used the example of someone at the supermarket a few different times (I asked and she goes there every day so it’s a big part of her life). My mother kept returning to the idea of small mitzvahs as a way to help the world: hold the door for someone, always say please and thank you, let the car in front of you merge (almost unheard of in Los Angeles). Growing up, my mother taught me two important lessons through example: curse with flair and always offer to help. Halfway through the call, when I was tearing up but not yet crying about my place in life and how to spend the rest of this Friday afternoon, I heard my brother-in-law’s low murmurings. He finally piped up and told me that it’s perfectly fine for me to focus on my career. Later in life I will be better equipped to give back and help society. Yet, another good point, providing I actually have a career and/or money. If neither of those things happens then I am living proof that there is no point to making a wish whenever its 2:22 or 3:33 or 4:44…

The most upsetting part of the call was when my sister smartly said that I must be feeling unfulfilled. Duh. I sit at home all day writing or shooting things that I hope will get bought or sold but I have no ability to make anything actually happen. Sure, I can finish that script, but if you write a script in a forest and nobody actually reads it do you have any right to feel satisfied? It’s difficult to not feel like a leech on society (and by society, I mostly mean my parents). So how do I fix it? Do I sit with the elderly person once a week? Do I give up my dreams and apply to Teach For America? Do I give up my dreams and apply to Starbucks?

I don’t think there is an easy answer but I think my mom was right to start small. I might never feel like I am making an impact on the whole world but I can try to be a positive force to all the people in my life. I can be friendly to the cashier at the supermarket and check in on my friends when I know they are having a bad day (turns out I’m not the only 20-something to be going through some sort of existential crisis). I can constantly show my appreciation for people and always say “bless you” when a stranger sneezes. I can stop tearing myself down and focus on bringing other people up. I can also go to an informational meeting about sitting with old people in a retirement home. What do I have to lose other than a couple of hours and $15 for the required t-shirt? 

FUCK WRITING (And Clever Titles)

Right now I should be outlining a dark comedy television pilot that I had complete faith in an hour ago. Flash forward to the present and I am not only questioning my idea but all of my life decisions. Here is a huge secret that will only come as a surprise to anyone who hasn’t talked to me for more than five consecutive minutes: I hate writing. What’s that, Allison? You hate the thing that you spent four years studying and countless hours attempting to master while alone in your apartment wearing old sorority t-shirts and ripped pajama bottoms? Yes, that’s right. Getting up every morning to look at the blank page doesn’t fill me with wonder and possibility. Instead, it floods me with insecurity and a wave of nausea. Someone once told me a quote that perfectly sums up my feelings toward my craft of choice, “Painters love painting, actors love acting and writers love having written.” At least I’m not alone in this. Although it definitely feels like I am when I procrastinate for hours looking up “Ways To Be Happy” on the Internet. (Maybe if my procrastination was more productive I wouldn’t feel so guilty…Turns out there are a lot of conflicting theories).

Yesterday I sent the second draft of a feature film to an interested director, my lit agent and my manager. A year and a half ago, the only person I had to send scripts to was my mother. I recognize and appreciate that I have made huge strides. Let’s hope they like it, because I don’t think that I am mentally able to write anything else ever again. I am currently on page four of this so-called “outline.” Despite multiple completed pilots under my belt, I suddenly have no understanding of structure, plot or act breaks. Ask me to write rambling dialogue for 34 pages: Done. Ask me to create a world with a pressing and compelling story and I’ll look at you blankly and ask to be excused from this imaginary dinner table. In this moment I feel better equipped to take on international secrets and a mole problem after watching countless hours of Scandal than I do to create a C story in a pilot where I have only come up with only two characters (two vague characters does not a show make, you fucking idiot).

So why do I do this? Why do I open my old-school Toshiba laptop five days a week and attempt to create something that is both unique and original? Heart wrenching yet funny? Honestly, I don’t know. Many writers claim that they have a story that they need to share. I don’t really have that. Other writers get bitten by the creative bug and work through the night, unable to keep their ideas to themselves. I definitely don’t suffer from that disease (although if anyone knows how to catch it without large doses of Adderall please let me know).

 Perhaps the only answer that holds any truth is that I can’t imagine a life where I don’t write. That either makes me an artist or a masochist. Potentially a mix of both. There is also the fanciful hope that I will get better at this. So much of writing is basic discipline that I try to believe that if I just keep doing it my muscles will grow stronger and it will get easier to flesh out an idea and actually create something close to a plot. Unfortunately, I have been lifting actual weights for over a year and show no sign of getting physically stronger so this idea of building writing stamina might be a pipe dream. If five years from now that fear is proven true, I will just comfort myself with another favorite quote, “Anyone who says writing is easy probably isn’t good at it.” I will also continue my search for happiness on the World Wide Web. 

Highs/Lows/Tears

Feelings. Ugh. Am I right, ladies, gentlemen and dogs with separation anxiety? As humans we are wired to care about stuff and eat at least 2,000 calories a day.  As a writer, I am drawn to the human condition and spend hours trying to mine genuine emotion from fictional characters. As a girl, I spend 90% of my day trying to push down and erase unwanted feelings, anxiety and guilt about my apathetic approach to recycling. Obviously, my emotion state varies drastically from day to day, week to week. Some days, the world is my oyster and the mere sight of a child will bring a smile to my face (this is actually impressive since I’m not that into strangers’ children). Other days, like today, I sit at my computer crying before I even finish a cup of tea. When blatantly asked if I was crying by my sister who was on speakerphone, I replied, “No.” Then, embarrassed,  I loudly blew my nose and tried to change the subject. 

For the past few months, I have been on a mission to turn into a robot. Although countless amounts of money and time have been thrown at professionals to help me understand and explore my emotional make-up, I am straight up jealous of people who walk through life detached and unaware. People who can literally say, “I don’t give a fuck” and mean it. Alien beings who don’t care about other people or whether or not they have a rude phone manner. Yesterday, I sent an unnecessarily rude text message and I felt physically sick for a couple of hours. Robots don’t feel pain, that’s why they make great cops and vacuum cleaners.

I’m obviously exaggerating a little bit – it’s what emotional people do. I don’t want to become a Transformer and feel nothing (I think they feel nothing…I never saw the movies). I just wish I had an optional off button. Some magic word or pressure point that could stop the flood when I want to take a break from being a super sensitive girl. Sure there are drugs and alcohol, but I am trying to watch my figure and my budget. And I have too much of a guilty conscience to become addicted to anything other than sweets. The logical part of my unbalanced brain knows that it is dangerous to shut myself off from the world. Much like the saying, “If you stand for nothing, you will fall for anything,” I believe that if you care about nothing, you will become a douchebag. And also boring and unattached and living life in fuzzy standard definition instead of crisp HD, which can be horrifying in close up but also quite beautiful.

The hardest part of the emotional rollercoaster that is this random Tuesday is that I feel ashamed. I feel pathetic. I feel wired incorrectly. No one has died. I haven’t been fired from my lack of a job. My parents still love me and watch all of my weird sketch videos. I have no valid reason to feel the way that I do. When it comes down to it, I feel silly for feeling. So then I yell at myself and feel even worse. This is a stupid cycle and a huge waste of energy that could be much better spent on a screenplay or learning what Pilates actually means.

This morning, after it became apparent that I was in fact crying, despite my stoic denial, my sister suggested that I get out of the house and distract myself by getting a cup of coffee. I resisted this suggestion because I had already made tea but she had the right idea. I don’t have an off button but I do have the ability to get up and keep going and going and going, much like the Energizer Bunny who is sort of a robot. Also, a complete lack of emotion makes you a psychopath and I’ve already had enough diagnoses in my life. 

TRICK OR FREAK OUT

Halloween is tomorrow. Surprise!  For years, the approach of this bizarre holiday has given me massive amounts of nervousness that springs from both my fear of wearing costumes and my general social anxiety. But let’s tackle one issue at a time. Despite my ability to go on stage and make an ass of myself night after night, I feel just plain silly whenever I wear a costume. It’s one thing to bare my soul and make jokes about my nose job. It’s another to think that I could somehow pull off “sexy librarian.” I went to a last minute party this past weekend reluctantly dressed as Anne Hathaway’s Catwoman. Surrounded by people who had put great care into their clever and clear costumes, I nervously corrected people who thought I wasn’t dressed up and simply liked to wear all leather on a daily basis. I then muttered, “I don’t like Halloween” into my empty hand because I also don’t like to drink. To fully commit to a costume has always felt like I am setting myself up for disappointment, judgment and regret. This might stem from the year I went trick or treating dressed as a snowman during the hottest NY Halloween on record. 

More likely than not, however, my costume woes are simply tied up in my social anxiety.  Much like New Years, Halloween is pretty much a barometer of your social life. How many parties will you be invited to? How many days can you extend the celebration? How many new Facebook profile pictures will you have to choose from? For the last couple of weeks, I felt pressure to figure out a fun exciting plan for Thursday. I couldn’t possibly be left out as a single 24 year old girl. This is my time. I must grab it and stay up until at least 1:00 AM. But then I had an epiphany. Maybe I just don’t like dressing up in costume because I get to play pretend everyday and I prefer my actual clothes to that polyester bowling outfit rotting in my closet. Maybe the idea of going to some random party or West Hollywood just doesn’t appeal to me because although I enjoy a good “hang out session,” I am not a huge partier. Maybe watching Hocus Pocus on my friend’s couch will be more fun than endlessly chasing whatever I hope will somehow make the night epic and story worthy.  Maybe this year I say, “Fuck Halloween.” And I actually mean it.

Here’s the problem. I am a 24 year old single girl who has a habit of hiding in her apartment. This is an unhealthy routine that I have desperately tried to kick for the better part of a year. I do need to go out, push boundaries and experience life if only to make me a better writer and keep my parents from worrying. That said, I think enough people have covered this particular holiday. I can probably sit this one out and wait for the next random Tuesday night where I decide to go out and stay up until 1:30AM (that’s right, people, I’m out of control). For years, I have felt so much pressure to fit in. But guess what? I don’t think it is going to happen. Especially since I am no longer of the age where I can just join an organized group that produces t-shirts that everyone wears for a group photo (i.e. sports team or sorority). What’s more important is that I feel comfortable in my own skin. Because I am not going anywhere and I enjoy myself so much more when I am not freaking out about whether or not Anne Hathaway’s Catwoman should wear pearls since I never even saw the fucking movie. So this year I am giving myself the challenge of no self pity. No feelings of “being left out.” No secret desire to still get a good Facebook profile picture by trying to make it seem like I am at a party. Instead I am going to go to Jamie’s house, bring some sort of gift since I am an adult now, and enjoy the shit out of Hocus Pocus. Unless it is already sold out everywhere. I am really bad at planning Halloween. (Surprise!).

THE BIG FI*! (*First Impression)

In the last three days, I have sat through four plus hours of open mics. I have probably seen almost fifty other comics bare their soul and/or minor pop culture observations on stage. At a certain point, I couldn’t even listen to the material anymore. I was more focused on people’s presence. Likeable or unlikable? Cute or creepy? Is the chin patch a choice or laziness (this is very telling)? Sometimes I couldn’t even explain why I found one person off-putting and the next guy endearing but I do know which of the two I was more generous with my laughter. My mother always says that she gives absolutely no weight to her first impressions of other people. But my mother is unusual. She refuses to play any sort of hypothetical game because how can she know how she will behave until it happens: “I know, Mom. But it’s hypothetical. Would you leave Dad if you found out he was a alien?...Just guess!...Fine. I’ll let you go to bed.” Most people love the game of hypothetical, which is why Fuck, Marry, Kill is the name of both a movie and a popular Tumblr. Similarly, most people form strong first impressions and stick with them. This is especially true when the only taste you get of someone is three minutes onstage under bad lighting. How will you handle the pressure? If it’s going to be with bathroom humor it better the best poop joke I’ve ever heard.

I’m starting to figure out that 65% of comedy is the jokes. The other 35% is you. Just you up there and whether or not you seem like the sort of person worth listening to. People often ask me if I prefer improv or stand up. My standard answer is that improv is a lot easier but stand up can be much more rewarding. If an improv show goes badly, you can toss it up to bad decisions in the moment. If you had had more time to think about whether or not a fish would get a divorce due to a stomach problem, you would obviously have made a different choice. Like not initiating a scene as a talking fish. If your six minute set is met with silence it feels like a complete rejection of you and everything you find funny. The summer before my senior year in college, I did a stand up workshop in NYC. Due to a variety of reasons, it was probably the worst time in my life. As a result my presence on stage was bitchy and bitter. Turns out, people don’t really love bitchy and bitter women even though Chelsea Handler has her own show. It has taken a few years for me to fully understand how important it is to be my best self on stage even though I am talking about the worst parts of me. Vulnerable does not have to equal sad, angry or defensively aggressive. Last night a really talented comic read out loud his rules for stand up. One of them was “If you’re not having fun, neither is the audience.” If I wasn’t such a pussy I would get that tattooed on my arm. Maybe I’ll just write it on a tank top.

Despite my improv background, I rarely go off book with sets. I cling to my material like a lifeline and hope that no one decides to cut the rope because I told one too many hair product jokes. But I’m starting to think that I might need to reexamine this approach. By the second hour of comics last night, the only ones who roused me from thoughts of the Weight Watchers ice cream bar that was waiting for me at home were the comics who were playful and genuinely seemed to be enjoying themselves. Even though I’ve struggled with depression my whole life, my default is no longer a sullen person. I dance a lot in my apartment and sometimes do weird voices to myself when I am getting ready for bed. Yet, I have never really shared this side of Silly Allison with the audience. I’ve been too focused on writing new material and not feeling like an idiot when no one laughs. But here is the thing: I get to decide who the audience sees when they make their first impressions of me. I will never have complete control over their opinions but I can do my best to sway them. I’m not saying I should kick off the set with “ghost girl”- a very creepy character I invented for my character reel – but I might just let myself loosen up a little bit and have more fun. A weird look can be just as powerful as a clever punchline. I am also going to slow down my pace since my parents saw a show last week and noted me on that. Multiple times. And then the next day through email. (Thanks, Dad! Message received!).

TO JEW OR NOT TO JEW

At an open mic recently, the host asked if the comic who just went up was Jewish. He then quipped, “I take that back. She would have already mentioned it.” While it might not be “cool” to be Jewish in the Midwest, Palestine or on the basketball court (my brother-in-law is afraid his children will not be athletic due to my sister’s genes), Judaism is a sort of currency in Hollywood and comedy. You might not seem funny, but your genetics give you a sort of leg up or at least allow you into a “secret” club that discusses brisket, kvetches about everything and makes millions of dollars. You have a shared background with many powerful people as well as the benefit of not having to explain what your typical Jewish grandmother is like. That work has already been done for you. It’s a well-used trick and I am not blameless of casually pointing at my nose to get a cheap laugh when I mention that I’m a Jew. Just today I wrote a joke whose punch line is “I’m Jewish.” (Feel free to imagine the set-up, and email me. Yours might be better than mine.).

One of the hardest parts of comedy is quickly connecting with your audience so almost all comics grasp at some broad generalization to speed up the process that allows the audience to understand who you are: “I’m black. I’m a stoner. I’m a prostitute.” I’ve seen it all. But there is a difference between being Asian and being Jewish. No matter what an Asian comic does, says or believes, he will always be Asian. But Judaism is technically a religion and I officially renounced organized religion years ago. Yet I still cash in my Jew Card whenever I want (it has a great deal on double miles). Is this hypocritical? Absolutely. Does it matter? I don’t know.

Saturday is Yom Kippur, the day of atonement. Jews all over the world will be fasting from sundown to sunset thinking about their sins and cementing their relationship with God. My family will be in town and we have plans to take a couple of my gentile friends out to a large lunch probably followed by ice cream if my Dad gets his way.  Later, we will go to break fast at my aunt’s and do the reform Jew thing of “observing” the holiday without following any of the actual rules. This is where the line between religion and culture gets blurred. Neither of my parents believes in God yet both my sister and I got Bat Mitzvahed. My sister even worked at a Jewish school before marrying a Roman Catholic. My mother was raised culturally Christian but called me the other day and said “Shana Tova”. I replied, “What?”

There are any people who only identity with Judaism as a culture as they eat bacon and flippantly use electricity on Friday nights. It is a part of their identity that isn’t contingent on whether or not they go to temple. If people ask, they’re Jewish. No harm, no foul.  I used to do the same thing. But as I have gotten older, I have become more and more wary of religion. While I understand the benefits and know that some people find it deeply rewarding, I strongly believe that it is the cause of humanity’s greatest flaws. Religion gives people reason to hate. It allows then unchallengeable rules and thoughts that have no basis in reality or morality because “something larger” is at play. It is the ultimate trump card to logic. And that is one card that I don’t want to play, even if it has “Reform” stamped on it. So what do I do? Stop referring to myself as Jewish and rewrite a chunk of my act? Stick with Jewish but add a disclaimer? Start lying and answer yes the next time an Indian cab driver asks me if I’m Indian (which was the set up to the joke I mentioned earlier as well as true story that happened last week)? I just don’t know. Maybe I’ll just play my mental health card more. Because if there is one thing there are more of in Hollywood than Jews, it’s crazy people. 

LET'S GET POLITICAL (Pretty please??)

All across the country and in different nuggets of the world, people are discussing Syria. These conversations range from heated debates in kitchens to formal phone calls that involve the President. To many, and probably all Syrians, potential outside intervention is the only thing worth thinking about. Sure, Labor Day happened, but America might enter yet another war. Shouldn’t this issue alone take priority?  I am ashamed to say that I have had only one brief conversation about this impending military action. I am even more ashamed to admit that this moral quandary only occupies a small sliver of my daily thoughts. I don’t even have a strong opinion on the issue, which would seem shocking to anyone who was ever in a high school class with me given my “know-it-all attitude” and propensity to never shut up. I want to talk about it in order to make a more informed decision but I’m worried it would seemed forced while I wait at an open mic or order food from someone who is only making minimum wage and working three jobs (another huge issue I have not spent enough time processing aside from clicking on a few Buzzfeed articles that offer unreadable graphs and pithy commentary).

Sometimes when I’m with a group of friends energetically discussing a blockbuster’s virtue or defects someone mumbles, “Can we stop talking about entertainment?” I never take this comment seriously. The only thing more confusing to me than gay Republicans are sitcom actors who don’t watch TV. Almost everyone I know has aspiration in the entertainment industry. I choose to think this comes from a love of TV, film and comedy and not from a desire to be rich and famous. It therefore makes sense that a lot of the conversations I have revolve around imaginary characters and scripts that are better than mine but will still never see the light of day. This huge world of make believe is my main interest. So I crack jokes with my comedian friends. I debate the merits of general meetings with my writer friends. I complain to my therapist about my OCD in order to get better and mine material for stand up. But I have no one set up in my life to discuss the bigger issues with. This is more than likely my fault. I would be underestimating my intelligent friends if I thought that none of them care about current events and politics. More likely than not they simply have other people they share this side of themselves with. Relationships become habitual and are distinctly unique from person to person. In the same way that I wouldn’t disclose something to a male friend that I might to a girlfriend (mostly because dudes don’t want to hear the benefits of bandos over bras), I have failed to establish myself as someone who wants to dissect headlines and potentially protest for change. Until recently, I wasn’t quite ready to even try to be this person.

Unfortunately, there is no clear cut way for me to change this other than simply bringing up topics that might seem out of place while I am getting my nails done or ordering my sole hard cider after an improv show. I am just going to have to test the boundaries and potentially offend a few friends with my sometimes misguided opinions. I think the most important thing I can do is become more well-informed about the world around me. While I can discuss Arrested Development for hours, my knowledge of gun control is rather limited. It is hard to fully engage in debate without bringing something more than an inspiring Facebook post to the table. In the same way that I wish I had a taste for healthy food, I crave a disposition that routinely ravages newspapers and online articles. Unfortunately, I am more drawn to clips from Comedy Central Roasts and inspiration quotes that are really just lyrics from pop songs. But hopefully that will change. Maybe one day I will finish the NY Times article about a revolutionary trial in China before I switch over to a Gawker post outlining the different ways that Miley could benefit from a simple dance class. And maybe, one day, I will have someone to really talk to about it. (Both the changing tide in Eastern politics and why Miley seems to have no control over her body.)

Allison 2.0 (Trademark)

I have recently gone through something close to a transformation. While it is not as obvious to observers as my weight loss after going off Paxil at age 12 (who knew I was only fat during prime adolescent years due to a medication side effect? My psychiatrist that’s who, but oh well), or after my nose job (which honestly was somewhat underwhelming and also caused a variety of side effects), those that know me well have noticed a difference. I am in the process of mentally transforming my thoughts, behaviors and reactions. Yes, it is as fruity as it sounds. And I’m loving it. I have always been a huge proponent of self-change. I truly believe that if you have a problem with yourself then you should actively try to fix it. It might not be one hundred percent effective but the journey to getting there is just as important. (Are you guys hearing this shit? I sound like a motivational speaker). The big shift that has changed for me is that I am now open to many more paths to achieving my ultimate goal (eternal inner peace and happiness, which sounds like a lot but I had supportive parents so I tend to dream big). While I used to rely on traditional tactics like behavioral therapy and cutting sugar drinks from my diet when I wanted to lose weight or get a hold of my depression, I know look for any and anything that might change my mindset. This includes writing weird quotes on note cards and Googling “how to be happy.” Cynical Allison still exists and is taking notes, but I have sedated her with promises of anxiety free days and popsicles.

For a few weeks after my decision to become untethered and focus on positive thinking, I had beginner’s luck. Suddenly nothing mattered to me and I found myself overcome with joy just by looking at palm trees, which is something I stand by because they are really fucking cool. Unfortunately, I hadn’t taken a magic potion and things were still able to get to me even though I told myself to breath and let the feeling pass through you. After about of month of no ticks “Allison 2.0,” I broke down in my bathroom and cried dirty angry tears. While this could have been a full relapse, the most amazing thing happened. I bounced back. Instead of wallowing in the darkness, I gave in to it and then moved on. Before my internal revolution, I would have beaten myself up for crying in the first place. Now I congratulate myself for getting over it quickly. Notice a difference? Obviously, since that is the whole premise of this weird blog post.

I have always been very weary of perpetually optimistic people. Are they putting on a false face? Are they completely delusional? I know for a fact that some are terrible improvisers but every show goes “amazing.” That is not possible. Something must be off. But then I realized that things only matter in the way that you view them. Every show can be amazing if you have a great time. While I don’t think I will ever be able to enjoy a stand-up show that is met with silence, I do hope that I can one day not care that much when it does happen and not let it symbolize more than what it was, which is one shitty show and not a sign that I will be a failure in absolutely every endeavor I take on including possible insurance sales. I used to hate when people asked me, “how are you?” because I had nothing great to report. No new jobs or roles or success and saying that I was doing well seemed like a lie. Now, I try not to rely on hard evidence to back up my state of being. If I say “I’m great,” it’s easier to feel great than if I made some self-deprecating remark about sitting alone in my apartment all day. While that kind of humor can be funny, it also wears on people. I didn’t notice how draining Debbie Downers were until I made the conscious decision to stop being one.

            Let me repeat, this is a journey. I still tear myself down and feel uncomfortable chanting positive mantras in my head after receiving rejection.  I continue to question what’s wrong with me and worry that I have mascara all over my face. But I also have some important distance from this type of mental anguish. I recognize it as destructive and not true and then I calmly say to myself in what can only be a creepy voice, “let it pass.” I have also been listening to a ton of music. This might be cheating because it simply drowns out the anxious thoughts instead of conquering them but as I said, I am open to all options including taking the easy way out. 

LET'S MAKE IT A WIDE SHOT

From the fifth grade until I graduated high school, I had to pick out my clothes according to a strict dress code. There were countless times over the years where I stood in a dressing room trying to make a long corduroy skirt look cool that I longed for a uniform. It was too difficult to look fashionable with all the restrictions. Uniforms look bad on everyone. They absolve you of blame. Now I am an adult and I can wear literally whatever I want! This is terrifying and overwhelming. Sometimes I wish there was a life uniform or if not a uniform than one outfit I was allowed to wear all of the time like a cartoon character. I can put together one decent outfit. It’s this 7 days a week, 30 times a month thing that is killing me.

It is two thirty. I have already had an outfit change after massive amounts of thought. My sister was born with a sense of style. I was born with an interest in strange hats. I have worked hard to lower my handicap in this area (I’ve stopped cutting my hair short and no longer let myself wear four colors at once), but I still have innate qualities working against me. My OCD involves a lot of sensory issues so I can’t wear dresses that are tight in certain areas, loose sleeves or shoes that make my feet hurt—then again, maybe I am just using my disorder as an excuse because what I am also describing is a wimp and/or loser. Needless to say I am already starting with a disadvantage and it doesn’t help that I have no idea how to curl my hair or properly apply make-up. I have a very important meeting this afternoon. I am worried there is going to be mascara smeared all over my face.

Like most people, I cringe when I see a photo of myself. I have never been photogenic which makes my chosen profession somewhat laughable (and not because I do comedy- so sorry, I couldn’t resist that one. I really apologize). I also have no idea how other people perceive me, which is actually an important thing for an “actor” to know. What roles am I right for? Who the hell knows! I got cast as a Christian last month so now I officially have no sense of identity. I am told I have a young face but I don’t see that at all. If anything I find my features harsh and defined, which probably all ties back to the time my grandmother compared me to Sarah Jessica Parker (still not over that despite having gotten a nose job). Yet, because I’m told I look young I often feel silly putting on make-up. While my friends carry it off effortlessly, I feel like I am a little girl playing dress up and everyone can see through my façade: “Wipe that crap off your face, Allison. It’s time for dinner.” 

For over a month, I had a zit on my chin. This little inflammation completely changed the geography of my features. I barely recognized myself anymore. I was afraid people would scream upon seeing me, or, if they had some class, keep silent but track the little monster with their eyes. It was inescapable and life changing. Then I remember that a lot of people have blemishes and I rarely notice them for more than a fleeting moment. I don’t cluelessly walk by my friends when they break out, suddenly unable to recognize them. In the same way that a hair trim counts as a big personal transformation despite everyone else’s failure to notice it, a pimple only really has power in the eyes of the person looking at it in a close-up mirror, shaking their hand angrily and applying a hot towel. (Good tip if you need it! Except I also had a pimple for over a month so it doesn’t really work.) The moral of this story is that I probably didn’t need to change my dress or freak out about whether I put on the wrong eye shadow (wouldn’t make a difference since I really only own one eye shadow). Unless I chopped off my hair and wore a meat dress I would probably look vaguely the same to the people I am meeting no matter what last minute adjustment I made. I just hope I can remember this when I am driving there and freaking out that the dress is a bit too short and why oh why didn’t I fix my pedicure. (No one is going to notice my pedicure. I’d bet my make-up collection on it. Or I can maybe just swap for yours?)