The Memior That Wasn’t
For many years, I've been living by something I call The Memoir Rule.
When I'm faced with a choice, I try to pick the choice that would be the most fun to write about in my memoir. The one I would want to tell my kids about. The one I would be most excited (even if not always most proud) to document. This rule has gotten me into a little bit of trouble, a lot of adventures, and one private underground club in Chicago dressed as Wenda (Where’s Waldo?).
When I finally sat down to write a memoir, though, I wasn't really sure what the point of all of those stories was. After a few years of false starts and blown self-imposed deadlines, I'm not sure there is a point. Maybe there are many points.
I’m getting older and trying to be more open about my experiences, which has landed me in the role of standup comic, mentor, and teacher. When I tell stories in these settings, the point seems to be different for each of the people I connect with.
For some people, the point after a few stories is that, no matter how badly you fuck something up, no matter how hopeless any situation may seem, there is always a way to come back laughing. For others, it's more about understanding and owning your power, intelligence, insight, and all the other things people who lack soft skills will either directly question or indirectly cause you to question yourself. My ultimate goal is to leave everyone with a renewed comfort in taking up space authentically.
To be honest, though, sometimes people enjoy living vicariously through a fun story about a Silicon Valley swinger’s party or acid-and-Adderall-fueled romp through Vegas on mobility scooters. Even better, my favorite friends have stories of their own to share. I have done more wild shit than my currently faulty brain can remember. I wonder frequently if it started short-circuiting because I put so many things into it. If that’s the case, though, I’m not sure I would change anything if I could.
On a regular basis, after a few stories, people tell me that I should write a book. For a long time, I told myself they were just exasperated with my incessant talking and would rather I tell it to a page. When I’m honest with myself, though, it almost always feels sincere. I started writing shorter pieces on my social media accounts and every now and then, something will resonate with people deeply. I get messages letting me know how my stories and conversations about life have impacted their lives positively or helped them see and navigate things about themselves they didn’t understand.
I guess what I’m saying is that I’m accepting my own power, both as a writer and as a human who has lived a thousand lives in a few short decades. I'm going to tell you some of the stories I can without getting sued or having to talk to family members I don't like. I’m going to tell you what I think I remember. Most studies on memory show it to be flawed in general, but between weed and epilepsy, mine is extra iffy, so some of these stories might not be accurate, either by way of bad memory or good story telling.
There isn't really an easy place to start this story, so I'm going to start it in the beginning of my life, but as with most people, my life is the product of many lives before and after it. I’m also ADHD as fuck, so expect that we’ll jump around.
