I am garbage.
More accurately, my fliers have become litter. But it feels the same.
My most depressing moment at the Fringe was the first time I realized the imploring eyes staring at me from the shriveled flier on the rain soaked sidewalk were, in fact, mine. That's my flier?! I was looking at me looking at me looking at me looking at me looking at me. It was a meta-moment -- by "meta" I mean "total mind-f**k!"
Who threw me out? What a tosser! Literally. Someone tossed me away... not even into a bin... onto the ground. And I imagine he did it in a passionate, dramatic, full arm raised, put his weight into it, "This is total shite!" slam to the ground. Stomp! Twist! Then he shuffle to the grass to get the stench off his boot.
That's how I feel he did it...
Okay, I wrote "he" in the description, because admitting I actually envisioned yet another lady crumpling my hopes up dreams before just chucking them to the ground is too vulnerable.
My act is about looking for love, finding love, then clinging to love, eventually driving my love crazy enough to leave... And by "crazy" I mean making the sane choice. I'm a comic, so by definition, I crave attention and overanalyze everything. I don't need more rejection. I've got my hour of material here, I don't need another bit.
Then again, maybe I'm over-reacting. Perhaps I was just one of several options vying for this beautiful lady's attention, and she didn't even notice when I gave up, slipped away and silently drifted to the wet pavement for others to step over and trample upon.
If so, and you're reading, my love, I invite you again to the Meadow Bar any midnight during the Fringe. I'll be the giant onstage whispering "Life's Short. I'm Not!"
So that was just part of the emotional roller coaster of the first sighting. I didn't include the realization that as environmentally conscious as I am, this litter originated with me. If I didn't have a show here, this trash wouldn't exist. I just added to the world's garbage heap. Again, take the leap to wonder if my show is just more trash in the culture heap. This is how stand-ups think: Am I just part of the noise here, there, everywhere? And so on.
So when I see me laying on the street, I pick myself up and reuse or dispose of properly. The environmentally aware Californian (I gave up on "environmentalist" when I realized BP Gulf Spill offsets my Prius a few million fold) can't let them lie. Not to mention, I don't want people seeing me and thinking no one wanted that, nor should I.
By the way, it was raining when I went through all the emotions above, that explains the moisture around my eyes. I wasn't crying. Promise.