Funny Feelings Read online

  FUNNY FEELINGS

  TARAH DEWITT

  Copyright © 2022 by Tarah DeWitt

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design: Sam Elias, Ink and Laurel

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  Playlist

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  PLAYLIST

  Could Have Been Me - The Struts

  Shelter from the Storm - Bob Dylan

  Song 6 - George Ezra

  It’s Called Freefall - Rainbow Kitten Surprise

  100 Bad Days - AJR

  Take A Chance On Me - ABBA

  For Me, It’s You - Lo Moon

  Wait - JP Cooper

  Fool’s Gold - One Direction

  Run - Taylor Swift ft Ed Sheeran (Taylor’s version)

  Stone - Alessia Cara, Sebastian Kole

  Crowded Places - Banks

  The Sound - The 1975

  Home - Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeroes

  There She Goes - The La’s

  Only Love Can Hurt Like This - Paloma Faith

  Alone - Jessie Ware

  Never Let You Go - Third Eye Blind

  Simply the Best (Acoustic) - Ben Haynes

  Rainbow - Kacey Musgraves

  Stand By Me - Ben E. King

  Don’t Worry Baby - The Brook & The Bluff

  Just a Cloud Away - Pharrell Williams

  This book is dedicated to all the women who’ve ever been told that they’re Too Much. Maybe you’re too loud, too crass, too open, too bawdy. You overshare too often, say too many bad words, you’re too weird, or too emotional.

  To the women who, in their quiet moments, still think back on their social interactions and wonder if they really are too much, if they should feel embarrassed, or ashamed.

  You are fucking incredible. You are my people. Don’t you dare dilute yourselves to make yourselves more palatable. You are all heart and fire.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This story felt like an important one for me to write. It was partially inspired by what it felt like to write my first book and have it be out in the world, what it feels like to create anything for anyone else’s consumption.

  When you put something into the world for others to judge, especially when you hope to entertain and elicit some kind of feeling from them, you know, logically, that it won’t be “for” everyone. Creating something that does connect to someone, though, is an absolutely irreplaceable feeling. It’s an addictive feeling. Writing somehow made me feel more myself than ever before, while simultaneously making me more deeply self-conscious than ever before. It was this rush of joy that was often swiftly followed by a dark downhill tumble into Imposter Syndrome.

  So, in this particularly low period, I utilized one of my go-to mental health tools; I reached for a way to laugh. When I have blue periods (notice I said blue, not depressed) in life, one of my favorite things to do is to watch stand-up comedy. I put funny stuff in my face. I allow myself to sit in the feelings and acknowledge them, and then I do something good for me: I laugh. Don’t get me wrong, I do the other, less sexy work to keep my mental health in check, too, but partner it with finding a laugh. Because I can tell you this: The last thing I feel like doing when I am feeling low is a mental checklist of my blessings and telling myself that I’m being ungrateful, or that I’m wrong for feeling bad. It only leads to me feeling worse about myself. So instead, I have often found that comedy can be a truly healthy coping mechanism for me.

  Comedy has educated me, has helped me see a new perspective on many things in my life. Comedy can be so profound.

  That being said, something touched me deeply one day when I realized that often, the comedians in our lives, not just the ones on stages, are the ones who are privately struggling the most. It really clicked for me that you should never dismiss a person who is willing to lay a piece of themselves before you, in any art form, even if it’s just to make you laugh.

  When I received a message on my personal Instagram from a random woman telling me that I should be ashamed to have written such trash, especially when I have two little girls who will undoubtedly grow up to be as foul as me, I knew I needed to write Farley. I set aside 30k+ words in another book and started to write this one.

  I wanted to write a woman who has a “foul” mouth, who tells sex stories to the public, who is loud and obnoxious and willing to be self-deprecating and even makes a living out of it. I wanted to write a character that makes silly, stupid jokes, but is deceptively brilliant, driven, and feels deeply.

  I wanted to show her softer side.

  Because even the most sarcastic, irreverent people in your life have intensely sensitive sides, as well. Trust me on that.

  I wanted to write a man who saw all of this and accepted every bit of her, who still struggled with his own mental health, but was deeply self-aware and just as loving.

  While the characters in this book work in comedy for a living, I as a writer don’t fool myself into thinking that I can write an entire stand-up set. So, this story is probably the least ‘done-for-laughs’ that I’ve written so far, and a few of the stand-up specific jokes told are inspired by certain comedians who helped me in some low periods, all of whom I will list. Of course, I was sure to still make the jokes my own, but I refuse to not at least acknowledge inspiration and give credit where it’s due.

  BUT, most importantly, the characters in this story have safe harbor in each other, so we see their sensitive sides more than anything else, and it is not entirely comedy-focused.

  Content Warnings for this story:

  -Death of a loved one is mentioned in two scenarios, with the deaths happening off page.

  -Strong language

  -Sexually explicit content

  -A toxic parent/absentee parent

  Just like I won’t claim to be a comedian, I’ll also never claim to be an expert at mental health. I recognize that my blue periods are not the same as someone else’s true medical depression, and I would never seek to advise anyone on how they should handle that, nor would I expect them to solve it with some funny Netflix specials. But this is my homage to a tool that happened to greatly help me.

  Lastly, to anyone who decides to take time out of their day to create something for someone else… What you do matters. Even if it's silly memes or videos or dances or jokes, or pictures of books with reviews. Even if you don’t see a dime from it, just know that it likely brightened someone’s day.

  Comedians that changed my life:

  Ali Wong

  Iliza Shlesinger
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  Greg Davies

  Russell Howard

  Aisling Bea

  Deon Cole

  Bert Kreischer

  Nikki Glaser

  Tom Segura

  Christina P

  Michael Che

  Trevor Noah

  Jo Koy

  Jenny Slate

  1

  “You’re only given a little spark of madness. You mustn’t lose it.” - Robin Williams

  FARLEY

  The diarrhea joke splatters.

  The bit was a gamble, I knew this, as most comedians do. Sometimes you are absolutely certain a bit is going to kill, and instead it dies a slow, lackluster death: the equivalent of a whoopee cushion blowing around the room. And then there are some bits that you think are just fillers, setups for some epic call-back to come later, and those are the ones that deliver. I have learned this from experience, but I still falter at the crowd’s response, just slightly, before pressing on.

  I suppose drawing an insightful comparison between the fruits of a misguided dairy binge and the works of Jackson Pollock was quite possibly Too Much. The only laughs I get are generally uncomfortable ones, some heads rear back and some eyes close, shuddering. This is why I’ve prepared another self-deprecating piece to segue into, this one a little more “Oh, that poor funny girl, that’s just sad. But look! She’s joking about it, so it’s okay for me to laugh. Yes, I’m laughing because I can laugh at her. This is what I paid for.” It is also one of those bits that’s based very closely on my personal truth, so… yeah, those ones tend to murder.

  The shitty (haha) joke is quickly forgotten, and I’m back to being a conductor in my masterpiece. It’s a symphony of laughter around me that I stir and tickle and prod. I work one side of the room with my sad, weird, awkwardness. I spin a tale about some delightfully aloof (nonexistent) men I’ve dated and the ill-begotten adventures of my sex life, before my yarn gives way to an impression that has me lemur-walking to the other side of the stage, coaxing the room into a legato of laughter.

  It’s beautiful, glorious, overwhelming; it’s warm and it fills me, fuels me. I feel like a spark that’s been begging for tinder, and this room is one of those old-timey blowers that puffs and fans me until I’m ablaze.

  With each crescendo I think I might really make it, I am f-u-n-n-y.

  The applause is magnanimous. And then it’s over.

  It crashes.

  I fizzle out.

  Each step I take toward the side stage has me sliding down from an adrenaline mountain, and it’s jarring and dreadful.

  The only thing that helps—my emergency pickaxe into the side of that mountain—is Meyer’s face. Everything around him is in disarray. The sound techs are wiping tears from their eyes. The MC is bent over with her legs crossed tightly around each other, presumably so she doesn’t piddle. Meyer, however, is as solid and stoic as ever. His arms are crossed, hands tucked into his arm pits with his thumbs out. He manages to lift those thumbs toward me in salute; roaring adulation coming from him. His mouth is an underscore across his face, his brow is as furrowed as ever.

  Meyer’s steadfast grumpiness is my tether. It lassos me, pulls me back into my own body and into the present rather than in my head where I’m always formulating a comeback or measuring and feeding a crowd. He’s not my rock, he’s my hammock. He holds and cocoons me in the shade on a summer day. Not that he’s actually aware of this.

  He’s also my manager. My manager, who, incidentally, has also become my closest friend since he came into my life three years ago. Though, in reality, he’s been a figure in my life for a bit longer. Not sure if he’s entirely aware of that, either, or how much he even truly likes me back, but that’s neither here nor there.

  He likes to pretend that I annoy him endlessly, but I’ve caught the corners of those lips turning up, on occasion. I get him every single time I do the bit about that guy back in college. The one that slung my knees up to my temples like I was some sort of human sleeping bag he was trying to roll up—insert enthusiastic charades display of this act—and, after approximately sixty seconds of uninspired thrusting, that guy yell-whispered in my ear, “I WANT YOU TO ORGASM” to which I terrifyingly responded, “OKAY?!”, with a thumbs up. I then proceeded to do whatever the opposite is of orgasm, as well as prayed to the heavens that I would not let a fart out onto this man and risk this being turned into his funny story.

  There are only a handful of occasions on which I’ve been able to get Meyer to crack his best, fullest smile, typically accompanied by a single-syllabled laugh. It’s a smile and sound that Rocks. My. World. It has teeth and dimples and crinkled, jovial eyes. The first time I saw it, I audibly gasped before he zapped it away, practically vacuuming it off his face. The date was marked on my calendar and will live on in infamy.

  There’s just something that feels elevated about making another comedian laugh—especially one who was as good and as sharp as Meyer was. As I suspect he still could be. He was big for a while there. He’d been featured on a TV special that showcased a great group of up-and-coming comedians and had even opened for some huge names. His comedy was the kind that cut deceptively deep. His delivery was just a degree away from monotone—almost bored, irreverent, but always surprising. The sort of comedy that hit right away, but the more you went over it in your head, the funnier it still became. He didn’t require animated facial expressions or anything in the way of physical comedy, and rarely uttered a curse, which only made them more effective when he did. Each bit always flowed seamlessly into the next, like he was telling you one long story.

  It was quite the opposite of my brand, come to think of it.

  “I told you that joke was shitty,” he says with mirth in his icy blue eyes as I turn off my mic and earpiece.

  “Did you just make a joke about a joke, Meyer?” His only response is an eye roll as he turns to keep walking with me.

  “Where’s Hazel?” I ask, searching around for his daughter.

  “Marissa took her tonight. She was supposed to write an essay but didn’t.”

  “An essay at ten years old? Jesus, what kind of school do you have her in? I’m on her side.”

  He sighs tiredly, rolling his eyes some more. “The kind with the best programs and teachers available for Deaf students. The very expensive kind. The kind that I’d like to be able to continue to afford, so let’s perhaps avoid the fecal matters in the future.”

  “Nice. Also, you’re saying I should include more of that “Awful Offal” in my set, so she can go back to hanging with us all the time?” I ask, including the headline from the last, most negative review I received. “And, as I’ve told you repeatedly, Meyer, hot girls have tummy troubles.”

  “I think I’ve reached my limit on the judgment I can take for having a child at a comedy show featuring you giving a QVC worthy presentation on your sex toy collection, Jonesy.” He refrains from addressing the last bit.

  “That bit is a long-winded public service announcement. I’m using my platform wisely.”

  “I’ve been threatened with CPS twice.”

  “Only before you explained that she couldn’t actually hear anything I was saying.” I hold my hands up in placation.

  “Which, as you’ll recall, only had them judging harder.” And I can’t help the genuine laugh that tumbles out of me when he says this, because Hazel loves it. She loves to be in a room of laughter despite the lack of sound. And I think that’s why I fell in love with her, because she can feel it, can feel that energy around her and is just as addicted to it as I am.

  She’s also entirely oblivious to any of the complications it causes her father, and he intends to keep it that way, which is maybe why I’m a bit in love with him, too.

  “You think me being judged is funny?” he smirks and quirks an eyebrow at me.

  “Well, no, but when you get the hang of it…” I shrug, and his expression deepens. We both know the judgment that comes with this line of work, the risks you take with cert
ain material. And while I always strive to push the envelope on social commentary, I refuse to do it at the expense of someone else’s humanity. I’d rather tell shitty fart jokes and make fun of myself than be an asshole in the name of being edgy.

  But, while I feel like my career is gaining traction, I’m not quite big-time enough to avoid being sucked into the vortex of reading the comments online. This week’s Imposter Syndrome is sponsored by one that said, “I don’t care if she is mildly hot when she actually speaks like a human being. I can’t stand this obnoxious woman. She complains about the audacity of men, yet (if the shit she blithers on about is any indication) I’d bet money that she has a body count higher than her IQ. This bitch is a train wreck, and if she didn’t dance around or scream like a banshee, nothing she said would even be remotely funny.”

  Before you ask, yes, the commenter’s name was Chad and yes, his profile was a photo menagerie of him in dudebro trucker hats—hiding what is undoubtedly a receding hairline—holding all the flavors of Monster energy drinks and wearing white Oakley’s backwards on his head. Obviously.

  But did I look up what a body count was on Urban Dictionary thanks to Chad? Yes, yes, I did. I’d always assumed that the term was some weird new way of referencing weight. Not so, my dudes.

  Then I spiraled into wondering if anyone had ever asked me what my body count was and how I’d answered. Meyer assured me I had not, at least not that he was aware of. And he’s basically aware of everything when it comes to me.