When shit happens, it’s easy to wallow, feel isolated, think the worst of dark clouds, death and destruction. But, what the fuck? Given the coolness of folks around me, they’d just punch me for being a jackass.

One thing I’ll say in defense of the ball-breaking institution known as a large, Boston Irish Catholic family, don’t even fucking think about messing with someone in the clan. Nah, it’s not just parochial “for us or agin us” bullshit. It’s support, great fucking advice, emails, phone calls and great fucking advice. My aunts, my uncle, my oldest brother (haven’t talked with the other two), my sister, all pretty cool, and they of all people in the world would probably know if I was a fucking powderkeg with a short fuse and a raging temper. They know the real me–the one that is actually too fucking inert to even get it up to take a shower right now. My rage as a kid was yelling, and retreating to the furthest corner to weep silently and read a book. Yeah, I’m psycho. (Note to whoever is reading this shit to mind my business, that last sentence is sarcasm. It’s sometimes used for humorous intent.)

And, there’s a ton of friends, who are OK with me boring them over dinner again, as I lick my wounds. (I think you know who you are, and Thanks.) Or the “comic” who left a couple of voicemail messages taking a stab at what my favorite song might be. The contenders, “Psycho Killer” by the Talking Heads or “Crazy on You” by Heart. Someone else added Sheryl Crow’s “The First Cut is the Deepest” (OK, that song could be a lot of people, I just figured Sheryl’s is the freshest).

I’ve met a lot of people who I wouldn’t have if I never went down the perverse path of trying to fucking do stand-up comedy in the first fucking place, and whose ears I wouldn’t be looking for right now, if I skipped that path entirely. Motherfucking life, why does there always have to be the thorn and fucking rose. (I was going to say something about a blade, but don’t want to freak out non-metaphor-comprehending big brother.) I do stand-up and write here to get out of a fucking 40-year old closet, too shy to go public with my bullshit words. I finally leave the house, meet a literal shitload of like-minded people, and the fucking people who I was afraid to cross for 40-fucking years of closet living are out there in spades. Proving one thing I know, given half a chance, people suck (and software with “people” in the name sucks, but I digress).

Finally, how cool is it that in the middle of whiny, whiny, self-indulgent, whiny-ass whining about my dilemma, M. is chatting about growing older together and hoping we’re as cool as my aunt and uncle? (It always has to come back to the clan I guess, after, what is it, like 300 years or something of dumb mick oppression by “the man.”)

By the way, do y’all think it’s a fucking coincidence or what that so far in the month of June there have been in the range of 15-20 searches combining “Denise” “comedy” “Boston” and the name of my employer, whereas in all prior months there have been ZERO featuring my employer. Coincidence right? (By the way, the only reason there was even one hit–I went to a non-work related benefit for a related charity. Yeah, I’m an asshole.)