Phoenix Rising

I’m fifth on this open mic. I look around and see the fellow broken humans listlessly slumped on chairs. Comedians look borderline homeless in their t-shirts and flip-flops, catering to Florida’s crippling heat. Most are starting their careers, some on stage for the first time. I judge. I think they want to be famous or maybe escape from their doldrum Walmart job. I look at my scrawled notes and wonder if my dreams are dead. What’s the point in accomplishing anything if she’s not here to see it? I’m only here to make sure I’m still alive.

I’m locked in a dead stare with the black and white photo of a hanging Larry the Cable Guy headshot. It’s a vast contrast to the digital patient board on the hospital wall that transfixed me last month. I hate both equally.

The host brings me up, “Tarin Shitty.” I’ve heard this countless times over the past of twenty years, and it doesn't bother me. Nobody is going to remember me here anyway. Calling me Andy Fucknuts would be the same.

There is an uncomfortable silence when I get to my mom stuff.

“Hospice is palliative care, like that’s supposed to make you feel better. We’re giving up trying to cure you, but here’s some morphine and a MyPillow.”

I’m a blackhole, a vacuum that sucks any last modicum of noise and life out of the room. I like the silence, and thrive on it like a parasite. There is a masochistic pleasure in the control of feeling. I leave the stage to a smattering of applause and look at my notes outside.

None of this worked. I’ll try again tomorrow.