Articulation and the Deconstruction of Louis C.K.

So.

I’ve been absent again. I’m kind of the worst again lately.

It’s not that I don’t love to write and it certainly is not that I don’t appreciate anyone who patronizes me like the kids who laugh at the doofus in the class. “Don’t encourage him,” the teacher always says. Because that kid is an asshole, and he makes her life harder. But he’s also funny and everyone appreciates his willingness to look like a doofus in order to make everyone else laugh.

I love being the doofus. Don’t stop encouraging me by coming around.

I’ll try to make it right and get back on track. The girls are headed off to Kindergarten a week from yesterday, and I’m also transitioning out of my flow charts into a new column topic this month. So I’ve been trying to get all of those things coordinated and then I keep getting sent to stupid assignments (cough, cough, can you hear me managing editor, I’m not saying anything, I’m just saying…) so.

Okay. So my dog ate my homework. My blatant attempt to excuse myself from my obligations to show up here and produce content every now and then are transparent and weak.

Moving on.

I’m also in the process of revisiting a project that I’ve had on the back burner for over a year. Long ago and far away I completed a book proposal to go with a set of three essays I had written and planned to polish. They’re part of a collection of essays, or a memoir-in-essays if you will, of the period in my life that’s changed me the most. It all hinges around the day my husband was arrested by the state Attorney General’s office for child pornography.

I had to put it down when I got hired at the T.O. I just couldn’t, and move forward at the same time. But the time has come, the Walrus said, to go back to shitty things.

Or something along those lines.

And I’m now back at the drawing board attempting to come up with a schedule for writing this book proposal over, and creating the content that stalled me three years ago.

Since revisiting the project I’ve found many of my symptoms coming back – I had a PTSD and adjustment disorder diagnosis back then. I don’t fully subscribe to its accuracy, and I prefer not to use it as a label, but as an organizing concept it helps to explain why, in the past few weeks, I’m back to the awful reality that is sleep paralysis and lucid dreaming.

I fucking want to punch every asshole who wants to learn how to have lucid dreams in the nuts.

The nuts, sir.

It’s bullshit. Maybe if I were dreaming about unicorns and rainbow farts I’d be all over this shit but I dream of being pursued and lost and socially flayed alive. They’re exhausting, my dreams, and I often struggle to wake up from from them fully, meaning that I spend most of my night either thrashing about in my dreams or thrashing about trying to force myself out of a sleep paralysis moment.

If you’ve never heard of sleep paralysis watch The Nightmare on Netflix.

Now imagine that that’s the majority of nights.

The struggle is real.

But this project will not go unfinished because in the end, in my life, I’ve overcome every bullshit obstacle I’ve encountered and I’m determined not to allow this one do be any different.

My therapist will probably want to murder me by next week, but sad day.

That’s why you get paid to pretend to be my friend, Joel.

Well, you don’t get paid because I’m poor A.F.

But you’re a smart guy. You’re picking up what I’m laying down. I believe in you.

Anyhow. Part of the writing process for me is studying those I admire and want to be like. And since the seriousness of the memoir project has been dragging me down I’ve been working hard to make sure that this new month’s worth of columns is funny as a mother fucker.

If fucking your mother were funny.

Which it is not.

Ever.

But.

I’ve set my sights on really getting touchy feely with Louis C.K. in the only way I’m legally permitted to (although if you’re reading this, buddy, just be aware that I will be happy to “know” you in a biblical way, too, if you’re into it, you juicy delicious ginger Mexican), which is to deconstruct the living shit out of his craft.

I love C.K. and Carlin for one reason: their games were tight as as hell. Every single thing they produced was flawlessly crafted, rehearsed, intentional, and purpose-driven. People love to hate them because they say dirty words but anyone who can remove the stick from their hiney long enough to really study what Carlin and C.K. do can not come to any conclusion other than that they are master wordsmiths, storytellers, writers, and speakers.

They’re brilliant, observant, and insightful like the best novelists of all time, but they’re able to present the most profound lessons of the most mundane situations with a wit that makes me weep with a paragraph’s worth of material.

Long story short:

  1. I haven’t forgotten you, dear readers.
  2. I’m working on becoming a more reliable blogger but
  3. I’m also working on becoming a better writer of parenting humor which
  4. Means I’ve got a lot going on and I need you to be less clingy.

Here’s this clip that I found profoundly helpful and craft-changing today.

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