So I have this thing (I like to call it "intensity." In-ten-si-ty.) where I become interested in a project and drop literally everything in service to it. And then -- just when it's getting comfortable and thinking about asking me to move in -- I say, "It's over, project. Your clothes are outside." And then I'm like, "Here's your bag./ Let me call you a cab." Beyonce always says it better than I can.
Sometimes this involves disappearing immediately after I finally organize the weekly open mic of my dreams. Other times it's as simple as neglecting my script work the exact moment I gain an iota of momentum. Sure, it was nice when that lady from Onion TV gave me her card back when I worked at Starbucks, but did I actually call her? Uh oh/ uh oh/ uh oh/ oh no no. Like most normal people, I preferred slinging lattes and waking up at 3:30 in the morning to making contacts in the field of my dreams.
See, not running as fast as I could in the opposite direction of progress would have required me to give up my identity as a professional, Olympics-quality self-saboteur. The kind that smokes pot in public and then tries to sneak onto the back of a cereal box.
Thankfully, those were the misdeeds of Old Eva. New Eva also secretly hates success, but she also knows to love the things she thinks she hates. And she eats way, way more leafy green vegetables.
Tomorrow is August 31st. I spent this last month 'processing' my 'Film School experience,' having a tear-inducing stand-up epiphany (bearing in mind that I cried at the series finale of Arrested Development), and starting from scratch -- scratch being everything from Feydeau and Oliver to The Awful Truth to devising what I think is an excellent system for cataloguing what makes Curb Your Enthusiasm so damn funny. I'd explain it to you, but it's pretty complex.
Alright, fine. It's just irony. Happy?
So I plan to enter the month of September striking a balance between writing and open-mic-ing. My muse will be Lady Gaga, whose voice manages to be 50% Madonna and 50% Gwen Stefani with literally no spillover. We have a lot to learn from her, such as what not to do at a party. Seriously -- is anyone else completely terrified by the lyrics to "Just Dance?" She can't find her keys, she lost her phone. Don't even get me started on the fact that she don't even know what club she's in. Seriously, Lady Gaga. Get it together.
Also, my new hobby is to become irrationally angry over song lyrics eight months after they come out.
I'll talk more later about my recent toe-dip back into the world of stand-up, but I'm going to stop writing stuff about myself when I should be writing stuff about myself that I can perform tomorrow. And you can put a ring on that.