Last night I did a stand-up set. I loved it. The audience loved it, I think. It felt right. The experience reaffirmed my desire to pursue stand-up again, now that I'm through with school and have the head space and time. I probably could've done more stand-up during school than I did, but there was the fear lurking, the same fear that keeps me away from attractive me during the semester: a fear of getting carried away. I've been there. There was a time when my obsession with stand-up was all-consuming. Then I got into Rice, among other things, and my participation in the comedy world waned. But anyway, so what, right? I'm ready to do it now...

But I mentioned this to my father and I all I got was discouragement. He said it was no life for me, an addict, that it would be too much of an emotional roller-coaster and that I'd keep bad company. He also said that I needed to quit dabbling and pick something and stick with it. But I'm twenty-four. Do I really need a life plan? That seems ludicrous. And what if what I choose is stand-up? He told me to pick the thing I love most and decide to be the best at it. What if that is what I love most? I suspect that stand-up, in terms of obsession level, is at least on par with fiction writing, if it doesn't surpass it altogether. And why do I have to choose? Who cares if I'm ever the best or not? I'm sick of career tracks. I just can't take all the discouraging words I've been getting from so many people lately. I'm at a crossroads in my life and all I want is somebody to pat me on the back and tell me I'm OK. All I want is some satisfaction. I don't need to be famous.

Alright, enough emotional vomit. The next post will be less personal.

p.s. I went bra-shopping yesterday. FUCK THAT.