Sweet Heart. Sweetheart. Love.

Tonight's a night filled with symbols my younger self would have had wet dreams about.

I'm laid out in the bath reading Andrea Gibson and Keaton Henson Plays in the background and the second after I read Sweet Heart the song whispers “sweetheart” and I look over and a see a shampoo bottle labelled Love and some part of me aches for any of this to mean something like it used to. To give me the reassurance that the universe is for me. Amidst all my doubts and self-critical thoughts there is a force out there that has arranged this book. This song. This bottle. To send a message of galaxies and eons and infinities just for me. Of things to come.

But they are just a book, a song, and a bottle.

And maybe if I can just let them be what they are they can be a trinity. Holy in the absolute lack of divinity. They will allow me connection if I don’t connect them. So I push against old familiar wants to let this moment be enough. This is the gift. Not the next thing. Not the unspoken promise. This.

This book. This song. This bottle.

The Man Who Fell to Earth

The loss of David Bowie is hitting me harder than expected. It's that age old trauma of not knowing what you have until it's gone. I saw that Blackstar came out on the 8th and I was excited to listen to it, but was finishing up an audiobook (oddly enough one with a short story called "Return of the Thin White Duke") in my free time so I put it off.

It's the dark immersive gothic space epic I'd hoped it would be by the way. If you haven't listened to it. Like Dune come to life.

It's no coincidence that David Bowie's Jareth the Goblin King was my sexual awakening. The bizarre, the strange, the unique, and universal would always go on to be my secret want. The complicated emotional villain who deeply wanted to be loved with no way of receiving. 

David Bowie was the first person I heard about that was bisexual. I think for a lot of weird sexually and gender fluid teenagers he gave us permission to be ourselves. That if we could cling long enough and hard enough to who we were that eventually the world would recognize our cool. 

I remember seeing The Man Who Fell to Earth when I was far too young. Besotted with the notion of seeing my new found love in another film, not just listening to Station to Station, I sat with my mother on the couch. It's the most terrifying ending to a movie I've ever seen. It made me feel sick to my stomach for days and I didn't know why. I think I was maybe 12. Maybe younger. Curiosity and honesty that ends with you being stranded and your identity never believed. 

I would later learn that that movie was a very emotionally cruel moment of his life. I like to believe I could feel it. 

Strange that I should enter into Bowie through films rather than music. I was a Queen girl. The first song I heard of his was Under Pressure. It felt like too much talent for one human to hold.

A social activist by simply being and questioning people's unthought out assumptions.  

I preferred him with his fucked up teeth. I still loved him when they were perfect. 

I hope Tilda Swinton plays him in his biopic. 

I don't know. Today I'm just sad and I want to talk about him. For some reason the world feels less accepting without him here. 

Your Compliments Suck

Everyone is horrible at compliments. If you aren't horrible at giving them then you're horrible at receiving them, and look out, because if you're great at receiving them YOU SUCK AT GIVING COMPLIMENTS. 

This has come to my attention from the series I created, The Fat One. It's allowed me to hear the 5 least put together words in the English language: 

"I love your web series!"

People have been awesome, and I have not been awesome about receiving these compliments. I assume there's some caveat that they aren't including. 

"I love your web series, except for the parts you're in." 

It's that stupid starving artist shit. That stupid emotional starving shit. 

However, here's a fun thing. People do spend a lot of time telling me how great everyone else is in the web series, AND IT MAKES ME FEEL SO WEIRD. 

There are so many incredibly talented artists that have lent me their time, and I wanted them because I knew they were great. Yet, I feel uncomfortable when other people mention it. Here's a typical conversation: 

Them: Yo, that cake in your web series killed it. That cake was so funny. That cake is so good at what it does.  

Me: You know I wrote the part specifically for it. / Yeah, It's great at taking direction. / We really worked with the cake to get what we wanted.

And you know what's shitty about that response? It says I'm responsible for how good they are AND I AM NOT.

That cake was excellent on it's own and I noticed what that cake did well and I wanted to show the world how great the cake is on a daily basis and then someone responded to the cake in exactly the way I wanted them to respond to the cake and then I GET JEALOUS OF THE CAKE. 


It's important to note that I also hear from friends nice things people have said about me. About my performance, about my writing, about me as a person. Profound and beautiful things, and it makes me wonder why we don't just tell the cake how great it is directly. 

Maybe it's because we intrinsically know the cake spends so much time trying to make sure that you feel your compliment was adequately received that it never actually receives anything. So perhaps we're doing it a favor, by allowing the message to be delivered second hand. To allow the cake some time to sit and bask in the comfort of feeling accepted. 

Fuck it. You're great. 

I'm hungry.

Comedy and The Art of Making Everyone Fell Terrible

The Trevor Noah thing right? Right isn't it just so complex and gut-wrenching and reactive.

As someone in comedy, of course I think we should be able to make jokes about whatever we want. As a woman, of course I think most men need sensitivity training.  And here so many of us are. Having to choose an allegiance: laughter or other people. 

So I choose both. 

I'm so fucking happy about this. I'm so happy we are having conversations about what jokes mean. That we are asking comedians to be smarter about what they say. That we are asking more of our comedy these days because it means we are asking more of our society. 

Jokes marginalizing others are simply feeding into an established dynamic, and there is nothing inventive or interesting about that. 

With the rise of alt comedy there has been much more of an emphasis on the individual rather than the whole. There's nothing wrong with that, but my favorite type of comedy has always been the kind that makes you say "Yeah that's weird that WE do/think/say that. Maybe it's time for that to change." Essentially anything that makes us question the rules that are governing us all. 

And The Daily Show is a perfect example of that kind of humor. So of course we should ask  that its next host be ready to take up that mantle. 

2009 Trevor Noah was definitely not ready to host The Daily Show. Hopefully 2015 Trevor Noah uses this moment to say "Yeah, that was weird that I did/thought/said that. I've changed." 

Comedy is the Collective saying we acknowledge the truth of this. I hope this Trevor Noah thing is signaling that we've come to a place where we ask that humor is no longer used to make everyone feel terrible. 

The Brave Ones #YesAllWomen

I am falling so completely in love with people I’m Facebook friends with yet barely know. The women and the men. Seeing the brave ones out there.

Brave. A word so often tossed around and so infrequently displayed. 

Bravery is about taking personal responsibility and also realizing when an action has nothing to do with you. About fighting through discomfort to find truth, and I didn’t even know I was surrounded by warriors. 

It inspires me. 

But I carry so much guilt that I don’t know how to let go of. And anger. So I’ll write until I can put some of it down.  

I’ll talk about the most recent experience I had with a member of the Improv community. A beautiful and vibrant place filled with so many people I love, but during a party where I opted to wear a low cut dress (and show off a rather ample chest; it’s true) I made the mistake of rebuffing a gentleman’s (nay, dude’s) advances by dancing with him an arm’s length apart instead of grinding my ass against his cock. His response: 

HIM: “Who’s your target?” 

ME: “What?”

HIM: “Your target.” 

ME: “I don’t have a target.” 

HIM: “Really? Because you’re dressed like you have a target.” 

ME: “No… I’m happily taken.”

I wasn’t. I was just so wildly taken aback. That isn’t suppose to happen here. Here with all of my friends. Where I was so excited to dance and look pretty around people who so often see me at my grungiest. 

"Don’t wear that dress if you don’t want every single man to believe you want him." Was my message.

Back to my jeans and sneakers I said. 

And then I tried to understand why he did it.

Must have been rejected by a lot when he was younger. That happened to me.  

Must not receive love, in all of its many forms, very well. I don’t either. 

Must think women want assholes. Hey, I often wish I was more high maintenance since it seems like that’s what guys want. 

Man what a poor sad child in need of a hug. I hope he’ll be ok with me not being attracted to him. 


And I did what I’m realizing just now is a strength of women, but so often feels like a weakness. 

I empathized. 

I didn’t let myself feel upset for me. I never let myself feel wronged or hurt. Inconvenienced at best because it would make me feel powerless to stop it from happening again if I admitted what it really was. 

Someone else rampaging into my life uninvited, and affecting me. 

And how could he have known that I had to pep talk myself into not wearing an under shirt for that dress? 

How could he have known that I was in the midst of a personal victory because I’ve had horrible posture from shrinking into myself ever since Dale Reed, fellow 6th grader, said men would never look me in the eye cause I have big boobs? 

How could he have known that I have such a hard time allowing myself to be seen as a sexual being because all of the sudden men forget you’re a human being too?

He couldn’t, but he could have been brave.

And this is just an encounter that’s on my mind. Not even the worst. Maybe the one I’m the least afraid to share because I’ve gotten feedback from others of how wildly wrong this was. 

The larger things are moments I hope I can share in person. In hushed tones of a coffee and let’s just get teary together. 

Let’s hear each other, and hug each other, and know that we’ve reached a new place. 

A place where we are brave enough to speak our truths. All of us. 

The 3-Minute Love Affair

Tonight one of the greatest rom-com moments in the history of real life unfolded before me as I lay in my bathtub.

I like to read in the bath, and this evening I pluck my well-loved copy of The Complete Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy from the bookshelf it has been resting on far too long. The water temperature is placed at lobster boiling point as desired. No bubbles gentlemen. You’re welcome. I tie my hair up in a bun, and get down to exploring other galaxies . 

Around page 3, I notice the guy in the apartment next to mine is belting Soul Meets Body by Death Cab for Cutie. The compulsion is strong. Too strong to fight, and soon I too am crooning in tandem: 

But if the silence takes you

Then I hope it takes me too

He pauses. I keep singing. He sings louder. Our voices harmonize until the end of the song. I’m probably pregnant at this point. 

We sit in silence and I pick up my book, but the loss in the pit of my stomach is growing. We were connecting. That was nice. It’s one of my favorite things about living in an apartment building.

The unavoidable and messy butting against the edges of each other’s lives.

I imagine him leaning against his bathtub wall. Our heads resting next to each other; divided by a thin line of sheet rock. 

So I tentatively start singing The Cure’s Lovesong. (I pick it because it’s either the Adele cover of this, or Neutral Milk Hotel’s In An Aeroplane Over the Sea that I will be dancing to at my small intimate wedding, and at this point, it will probably be with this guy.) I don’t know if he’ll know it, or like it, or sing along, and for the first two lines I am suspended in a space alone. Asking for a partner. Afraid of the response. And then we round the third line and I hear a tenor join in as my alto serenades:   

Whenever I’m alone with you

You make me feel like I am whole again

At this point I am ready to jump out of my bathtub, throw on my robe (or maybe not), knock on this guys door, and enter into a life long love affair that rivals Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy. 

Then I hear a female voice giggle flirtatiously “Are you singing in here? Stop it. You’ll bother the neighbors.” 

So yeah, I’m still single. 

For comedic affect, I am tempted to stop the blog there, but it misses the most important thing about this little exchange. I let myself have fun and be vulnerable with a complete stranger, and how often do we fully give ourselves over to the magic of circumstance?

For me the answer is not nearly enough.

And arguably this was the best possible scenario for me to take the training wheels off for a while, because if my love story is this well written it means I’m in a Nicholas Sparks novel and will soon contract a rare form feline leukemia for humans as my neighbor cradles my dying body in pale moonlight. 

Receive Your Love

Yesterday was my birthday, and over the past 3 days I’ve had the amazing opportunity to say more “Thank Yous” then I did in the last year combined.

I am horrible at receiving. I have very specific views on what I want to receive, and if I don’t get it exactly the way I’ve planned then I tend to reject it. But this year strikes me as a time to just be open to whatever the universe brings to me, and be grateful. Planning is fantastic, it is wonderful, but it can be a blinder. 

I’m doing thing donation based thing to help fund my acting business (don’t even get me started about how uncomfortable I feel about that), and it was meet with such enthusiasm and love from people around me. Countless kind words, public cheers, and actual cash. 



Here’s the link. If you want to check out the thing with thing and the thing. 

But some people feel weird about donating money, so I’ve also had offers to buy my groceries. Take me out to dinner. Pay for business cards. Just an out pouring of support that at first I felt the need to control, and now I let it come in whatever way it wants to reach me. 

2 amazing dinners this week with 4 amazing friends. Honestly, I just feel like crying all of the time because I’ve never let myself notice how much people care about me. An amazing experience.

I can’t wait to return the favor. 

God I loose all of my sense of humor when I’m being sincere. WHEN WILL MY SARCASM RETURN TO ME!!!!!

My Godmother is Jesus

When I was 5 or 6 I flew from my new home in Virginia to stay with my godmother Tina for a week or so where I was born. Texas. Not my Dad mind you, who also lived in Texas, my godmother. Who was basically a second parent for my youth. 

One day, she took my little sister and I to Six Flags, and before we went she said “Kaye and Stacy* are going to be there. You remember them?” Nods from the peanut gallery, “Ok, so they are gay. Which means that they are girlfriends… with each other.” 

My response was “They aren’t going to kiss in front of us are they? That would be gross.” She said “Probably not.” Because in my 6-year-old brain the only reason we would be having this conversation was because we were going to have to prepare ourselves for a hardcore make out sesh happening in front of us. Didn’t happen though. 

And we went to Six Flags… and it was AWESOME! 

So then I get back to Virginia, and this conversation goes down: 

Me: Mom, we went to Six Flags with Tina and her friends. They are gay ladies. But they didn’t kiss in front of us. 

Mom: Well you know Tina is a gay lady. 

Me: What? 

Mom: Tina’s gay. 

Me: Has she always been gay? Like even when we were really little. 

Mom: She has always been gay. 

Me: Oh.

And in that moment I felt so bad, because I would never want this woman who helped raise me to think that I thought she was gross. She was totally not gross. She was this representation of all the things I loved in this world, and none of those things contained anything gross.  

As I got older, I watched her find love… with KAYE! What! Sneak attack! Raise 2 beautiful, happy, well adjusted boys, and pour affection and caring into so many people who feel forgotten about. She’s kind of an everyday hero guys.

A champion for the unknown. Protector of the undefended. A person who's great at parties. Just like Jesus. 

Guy, my godmother is Jesus. 

So yeah, gay marriage is something that’s super emotional for a lot of people, and I certainly fall into that category.

Sexual identity has always been a weird thing for me, and I’m very lucky that no one in my family has ever made me feel weird about who I connect to. Unless, of course, that person happened to be a douche bag. 

Which brings me to my theory; the sooner we learn to accept people for their surface differences the sooner we can start hating them for who they actually are.

Just kidding!

Come on guys. At 6 I realized that loving is always the answer. 

Let’s end with something everyone can get behind. Corgis:


* I don’t remember this woman’s actual name

Anxiety: Now with pictures!

Every time I’ve sat down to write over the past couple of weeks I move away from it. Mainly because the stuff that’s happening in my life feels so much more personal than it has in the past. 

I’m really investing in things I care about in real and tangible ways and I’m pretty sure I had a mental breakdown yesterday. 

Ok… exaggeration. 

I had an anxiety attack so intense I could not leave my bed. Called out of work with a migraine, but really it was an “I can’t handle pretending like working here satiates my creative needs” kind of day. 


It’s weird. I know so many people who panic because they don’t know what they want. I panic because I know the things I want, and want them so intensely, that the thought of not having my desired experience is crippling. 

I care way too much about this shit. 

I just want to create. Connect. Share. Retreat. Give and get. All the time. Every moment of the day. Until I am fucking spent. I want to live life in a way that consumes me. 

But right now my lack of pursuing my goals with every waking moment is eating me alive.


I get home and I am exhausted from work. Slink off to my land of video games where I can pretend I’ve accomplished something, or to an improv show to get my hit of the performance drug. 

I don’t know. There is good stuff. Lots of crazy good stuff happening. (My commercial aired on the premiere of Walking Dead. I was in the viral phenomenon ”Women of LA.” I just auditioned for a series regular on a pilot after being in LA for less than 2 years.) I’m just too focused on what my end goal is, and trying to figure out the how of achieving it. 


“You never really know, but when they know, you’ll know, you know?” - Crush

I like watching movies in theaters relatively alone. I can let my feelings consume me and bust out into whatever form they want to take, or sit quietly with them. Things I don’t allow myself to do normally. 

I wish I would have gone to the movies yesterday.