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DAY ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-TWO: The Pauper Releases

Ever since I've gotten back into the acting ring (where people exchange cutting side-eye left hooks for punches), I've been trying to remember how to be a good actress.

Over the past few months, I've been trying desperately to come to terms with the idea that I'm no longer an honor's student at Frederick High School.  Shove me into an AP class there now, and I'd be lucky to leave with a C.  Drop me in a class at Loyola, and I've lost my Cum Laude status.  When you were once the kid that other kids gave a slightly audible "yesssssss" when assigned you as a partner, it's a weird and humbling transition to realize you rely on your calculator to figure out what you owe the busser in tip share at the end of the night.  Suffice it to say, I'm not the A+ student that got me those chords at graduation.

What I didn't realize until recently was that acting remains a skill in the same vein.  I grew up under the impression that creative talents were a gift bestowed upon you at birth.  That education in these fields was next to useless.  You either got it... or you don't.

Now, I have come to understand this is about as useful as allowing me to perform your vasectomy because I've seen my way around a dick.

Because eight years without any experience has brought me back to square one.  Except, joke is on experience.  Because my life has taught me the art of observation.

Theses gifts are, in part, bestowed upon us at birth.  We are left brain dominant, or we are right brain dominant.  Neither is right or wrong.  But in the same way that our sexuality is determined at birth (and it is), our logical vs. creative skill set is determined genetically before we are even capable of giving the middle finger.

So the person who once was a great actress.  Someone who found solace in the stage; an awkward teenager more comfortable making an ass of herself with the lights blinding her vision instead of flirting with a boy in gym class; now has to figure out how to regain that confidence with a whole new mound of deeper insecurities to cripple her.

The younger we are, the fewer inhibitions we have.  As ass backwards as it seems, our most "awkward" time (adolescence) couldn't be farther from it.  Awkward as a teen means breaking out in acne, not understanding your body, and having very little grasp on who you are.  These are skin deep issues.  I only wish that someone told me how deep anxiety would spread in your twenties.  When you start to doubt your own character.  When your goals and ambitions seem fruitless.  When you can't understand why you were put on this stupid piece of land to begin with.  THAT is awkward as fuck.

So dropping the whole acting thing during the prime of my maturation was regretful.  As now I have to relearn my craft as a human hobbled with self doubt and insecurity.

But tonight, I released.

During the rehearsal process of our upcoming sketch show, I have felt about 60% present.  I'm here.  I'm hosting.  And I am saying my lines.  But tonight, my brain let loose.  I've been watching the actors in our show.  I've been watching improv.  And I've been eating a hell of a lot more kale than pizza (which is hard at Pizano's).  And some where along this road, my brain opened up.

Credit the impending spring time (30 degrees!)  Credit the better diet (KALE!)  Credit the aforementioned euphoria (READ MY BLOG, GODDAMMIT!)  But I'll just go ahead and credit myself.  Because who else will in this crazy, fucked up world?  I make the choices I make.  All of this leads to a better me (hopefully?)  But somehow, tonight, I tapped into my inner actress.  And for the first time in eight years, I saw that girl on stage, age 17, who needlessly dropped a Madonna rap to little applause during an improv showcase and left the stage ready for more.

Can't Stop The Beat

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY: The Pauper Feels Euphoric

It's a weird feeling.  That feeling when you are used to being depressed, and you can't get your body to feel that way anymore.  It's called euphoria.

What makes us feel euphoria?  This happiness that you just can't seem to shake.  You work all weekend and check your newsfeed to see that everyone got crazy drunk celebrating Saint Patrick while you spent your weekend serving up some hot pizza pie to said drunks.  You spend Friday and Saturday night alone watching videos on Youtube and psuedo-Netflix binging.  You haven't made any professional strides.  And a song comes on the radio at work that reminds you of past love.  But it doesn't shake you.  What is wrong with you?

Perhaps euphoria exists because even if the immediate doesn't feel especially fantastic, you know it's because you made a choice for the greater good.  You stayed in all drunk weekend because you no longer find joy in binge drinking in the hopes you will find some sordid hook up that you'll forget about.  You spend your weekends tired from long shifts because you enjoy the relaxation of staying off your feet.  You take a break from professional advancement to enjoy the time alone.  A song reminds you of someone you once cared about, not someone who hurt you.  You are happy in your decisions.

After two months of frigid depression in this windy city, it can begin to feel unnatural to feel the opposite.  Why are you so happy?  This happiness is a fallacy.  This isn't you.  Even the dark week of your monthly Red Wedding should surely bring the empty thoughts.  But they aren't.  They won't.  You can't help but smile.

Why does feeling happy feel like a weird turn of events?  We should always feel this way.  That's the point, correct?  But when you are constantly plagued with fear, self doubt, and inadequacy, happiness can feel like some kind of seasonal flu for which no amount of NyQuil can dull.

So accept it.  Embrace it.  Hold it closely to your breast until it feels so full it might burst.  The moments we feel content in life, we should not question.  Over-analyization can start to bring the chaos back into your cerebellum.  Allow yourself to feel the good as equally as you feel the bad.  For I fear we tend to dwell on the bad and let the good slip away like an extra 20 we find in between the seats on the L and spend on an extra special bottle of wine.

It might be difficult to dwell on happiness.  It's easy to forget moments we get caught up in.  But perhaps, if we spent a little more time dwelling on contentment, we get a little bit closer to a euphoric life.

Nothing Wrong When A Song Ends in a Minor Key

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-EIGHT: The Pauper Makes an Honest Vow

One of the problems with being a creative is figuring out where the hell to put it.  Where do you assign your thoughts?  Not necessarily the channel, but where do you resign the segment of life where you output matters?

I've always felt my strengths laid in comedy.  In my group of friends, I got an inherent joy from making others laugh.  But as a current student of comedy, it no longer feels my strengths lie in that realm.

But one thing I have clung to - and perhaps why the show "Girls" has been such a grating pain to me - is that my life experiences have led me to believe I was put on this earth to dispel the fiction blasted to women through cinema.  I want to expose the truth.

Film, television, and media in general perpetuate ideas I have never found are true.  And that has led to a lot of misery through teenage angst and adult existential crises.  Life isn't about happy endings.  Important life events don't end on a note of poetic justice.  But we believe they do because our windows to "the world" portray them as such.  Perfect careers, perfect boyfriends and love affairs, perfect friendships and familial relationships.  These are the notions broadcast through the media aimed at adolescents: some of our most formative and impressionable years.

It isn't until we experience the fallacies of these "truths" that we realize how wrong they are.  And by then, is it too late to adjust our thinking patterns?  Is that why we grieve?  Is that why we suffer?

Life doesn't tie up its bows in pretty little Pinterest patterns.  So why should we create those realities in the minds of our youth?

I genuinely believe we are on the precipice of a revolution in popular culture - despite the Jezebels, Buzzfeeds, and Perez Hiltons of the world.  We are ready for the truth.  And I would love to be a part of it.

You will not know what you want to do with your life when you are 20.

You will not find total happiness in someone else.

You will not always want to get out of bed.

Your life will never montage.

You will gain weight.  And if you choose, you will have to work hard to lose it.

You will fall in love... and you will get your heart broken.

You will have to break someone's heart.

You will cry in a way that is not beautiful.  That consists of snot pouring out of your nose while drinking and listening to Fiona Apple.

You will succumb to vices.

You will disappoint people.

You will hurt people.

And it won't immediately be fixed.

You will make the wrong decisions.  But hopefully you will learn from them and make the right ones next time.

You will wake up in the morning feeling happy and fall asleep that night feeling miserable.

You will wake up feeling miserable and fall asleep that night feeling elated.

You will not get to make a wish that comes true every time you blow on an eyelash, see the time is 11:11, or blow out your birthday candles.

You will get nowhere unless you work hard.

You will get nowhere unless you work hard.

You will get nowhere unless you work hard.  Because you will have no montages.

And sometimes, songs will end in a minor key.  But that doesn't mean they didn't teach you anything.

It's Friday, I'm In Love!

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-FOUR: The Pauper Stops to Smell the Tranquility

A funny thing happened on my way to work last Friday.  It was 9:45 a.m.  The rush hour morning commute had dwindled enough for me to find a seat at the Belmont Red Line - an impossibility an hour earlier.  And when I arrived at the restaurant, I danced and sang along to "Drunk In Love", which boomed over our loudspeakers as I set the dining room waiting for my red-shirted compatriot to arrive and help.

But in my moments of tranquility before his arrival, it had dawned on me that it was Friday.  This day of the week I once held in such magnificent high regard now appeared to be just another day at the office.  Because I no longer wake up on Monday mornings with this simple thought occurring once my brain registers lucidity: Five More Fucking Days.

There's no longer a day of the week I dread.  I no longer wake up stressed, wondering whether I remembered to accomplish a task at work, and if that meant I would formally get my posterior handed to me on a decorative platter.  There's no more self-loathing in the path I have chosen.

It doesn't escape me that this could be the result of not yet having the opportunity to fall victim to a routine.  Routine is the boner killer of creativity.  But for right now, it's a fantastic feeling to have gone from eating rotted Aldi fruits to fresh peaches bought off the beaches of Ischia.  And perhaps the next time routine befalls me, my senses will be ever so keener to its void.

You would think that without the low lows of Mondays, I could never have the feverish highs people experience at 5:00 on Fridays.  And to that I repeat: dancing and singing along to Beyonce at 10:00 a.m.  At work.

The Super Indecision 3000

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-NINE: The Pauper Waits

“Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worst kind of suffering.” - Paulo Coelho, By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept

This quote was brought to my attention last year by a dear friend of mine.  We lamented unrequited loves over a bottle of whiskey while sitting on my back porch.  And the thing about a really great quote isn't just that it captures an emotion so spot on, so personal that it feels like everything you have ever wanted to say but didn't know how to say it, but that it does it so eloquently.  In the way only a true writer can.  For this reason, writers are essential cogs in our emotional journeys.  They tap into emotions we can't express ourselves.

But the beauty of this quote touches on a thematic string I've been circling since I left my job last fall: decisions.  Life is about making decisions.  Something perhaps not made common knowledge in our collegiate studies.  You can turn left, or you can turn right.  You can take this job, or you can wait for the next.  You can say yes, or you can say no.

It takes a certain amount of poor decision making to understand the heft of this knowledge in your life.  When I made a decision in 2009 to accept a job to make money instead of searching for a job that would make me happy, I had no idea that the consequence would be four years of personal flatlining.

But awakening my senses to the weight of decision-making means I have to be cognizant of every decision I make.  Even something as simplistic as plans with friends becomes list of pros and cons.

As the quote states, it's the in-between that truly drives us crazy.  The inability to make a decision.  Do I wait?  Or do I forget?  Do I turn left?  Or do I turn right?  How do you know what is right?

You never do.  Because no matter how much prior knowledge you use to formulate your list of pros and cons, each instance is different.  So what dictates a good decision?

I think I have finally figured out the only right answer to this question: conviction.  Because when you have the courage to stand up and say that you made a decision that you 100% believe in, it can never be wrong.  You simply have to accept it.

And if you had the cajones big enough to make a firm decision, then you should always be rewarded with knowing you made the right one.

Real vs. Reality

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-SEVEN: The Pauper Escapes Reality

One of the biggest issues I have dealt with in my exploration since starting at Second City has been pursuing my dreams.  (But Hannah, that's what this blog is about.  Let's try to be a little more original and less obvious.)  But not pursuing in the physical sense.  Not writing more.  Not quitting my irrelevant job.  Not performing.  I'm talking about the mental roadblock that comes from being raised in a world where being a realist is the only way to logically navigate life.

But reality is boring.

How many times have you thought, "Man, if they made a reality show out of my life, it'd be nothing but marathoning Scandal and spending 10 minutes picking out the pint of Ben and Jerry's I want to binge on whilst I binge."  There is a reason reality television is fabricated.

Reality is boring.

As for the scripted entertainments, they make the doldrums much more interesting.  Joseph Gordon-Levitt is really upset that Zooey Deschanel broke his heart.  Let's montage day-drinking and pajama wearing and set it to a catchy little Spoon tune.  (From here on out, Spoon can only refer to their music as "Spoon tunes".)  It's fun to watch other people's misery on screen, and it can even look endlessly fascinating to watch a week in the life of an unmotivated Jason Segel culminating in a staff-pounding Lord of the Rings rage burst.  But when you are doing it yourself, well...

It's boring.

Aside from basic essentials of biologic life (food, water, air), what do we need to survive?  Because, let's face it, spending day in and day out cooped up in your apartment eating, drinking, and breathing does not a life make.  So what else do we have?  Companionship?  Sure.  Without human contact, we have no one with whom we can share our highs and our lows.  But that puts the cart far before the horse.  Because how can we have highs and lows without what I believe is the most important non-biological element of human life: dreams and ambition.

If we live our lives firmly planted in obtaining the most tangible elements, we are denying ourselves the pleasures of pursuit and reward.  I wrote an entry in December about the hopelessness of hope that is fabricated by many films.  But two months later, I'm here to quash that idea.  Hope is the fuel we need to pursue our dreams.  If I don't hope that one day I will be a famous writer, then it will never happen.  In the same way that I used to watch romantic comedies and hope that one day a prince charming figure would sweep me off my feet, I am now able to watch excellent pieces of cinema and hope that one day it will be mine that people ogle over.  I have to hope because the moment that hope dies, the ambition and the dream die with it.  Because in that moment, I succumb to reality.

And reality is boring.

For Every Leader...

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY: The Pauper Resumes

To say that life has its ups and downs is not only obvious, but such a cliche that it has no purpose in a writer's blog.  But to ignore my blogging absence also has no place.  So to be brief: life has had its downs.

When I started this blog, I swore it would not devolve into Livejournal like updates about my mood.  So I will simply gloss over my absence by saying, life has been difficult on a personal level.  But to gloss over would forfeit the benefit of honesty.

People who write about depression in a captivating way deserve some sort of Pulitzer.  It's difficult to toe the line between self-serving and honesty.  And I don't pretend to believe I can do so without falling into the latter.  So all I will say is that, Chicago winters (especially this one) deserve a special place in Hell for what they do to people's psyches.

Now that's out of the way, where do I begin?

While "Damn It, Janet" resurfaced during Chicago's 13th annual Sketchfest, I met someone whom I bonded with enough to start a professional writing relationship.  And today, while working on a treatment for our screenplay and on a two week respite from drinking, I realized my new dependency: writing.

This is a funny revelation to anyone reading a blog about someone who quit her job in September to pursue her dreams of writing.  But you never realize what you need in life until you hit your bottom and are salvaged.  Today, I was salvaged by working on a treatment for a screenplay.

The high I got from being creative was far more powerful than alcohol or pity.  In the midst of winter sickness and woman troubles, I some how dug myself out.  And through the power of creation, I was able to find myself the happiest I have been in 2014 on none other than February 14th.

But for some people, being a self-starter doesn't cut it.  And I won't pretend to be one of those people.  Not yet.  Not while I'm starting out.  Maybe one day.  But for right now, I'm dependent on the bottle.  The bottle of dependency.  And that dependency is looking to someone else to kick my ass into gear in order to feel better.  Because there's no better high than personal validation.