I Can Barely Take Care of Myself by Jen Kirkman

would know that you and I were meant to be together. I have no idea what the fuck even two words are from Superfudge, but I have my heart set on this dramedy I’ve written in my head and there can be no rewrites.
    Thomas shut the door and I heard him twist both dead bolts. He said, “Hariette? Hariette? Come here, honey.” I got up and left Superfudge on his doorstep. It was just like when Ithrew a copy of the Albert Camus book The Stranger to Robert Smith onstage when I saw the Cure in high school. I’d read that their song “Killing an Arab” was based on that book and I wrote a wistful fan letter on the inside flap that was more of an argument as to why I was Robert Smith’s only living soul mate and how unfortunate it was for him to have gone this long without me in his life. Inboth instances I never got a response. But at least I’m spreading to many men the joy of reading.
    ONE NIGHT SHORTLY after the Superfudge debacle, I got offstage after my set at M Bar and headed to the bar. A married male comedian—a friend of mine—stopped me to chat. I didn’t think this was anything out of the ordinary; he always loved to talk comedy and give advice. He said that a bunch of peoplewere going next door to a bar for a postshow drink and I should come by.
    When I got there it was just him. He started to confess that being married is hard and he wanted to know my opinion as a single woman on this complicated issue. Before I could answer, he asked me whether I thought that his jerking off in front of me would be considered cheating on his wife. I wasn’t sure of the answer, inpartbecause he was a dozen pounds overweight and wore a crooked hairpiece that resembled a golf course divot. I wasn’t attracted to him. If he were Robert Downey Jr. and RDJ wanted to know whether I thought his jerking off in front of me was cheating, I would have said absolutely not. Not only is it not cheating, I think it’s good for America if you show me your cock. And if you are at all tiredfrom touching yourself, please allow me to do it for you.
    But just as I was about to say, “Look, you’re really funny but I have no interest in seeing your dick,” I heard a familiar voice behind me say hello. I turned around and saw Matt. He said jokingly, “I know. You don’t remember me. But I’m Matt. We’ve met. I’m not a DJ.”
    That was the moment. He called me on my shit. I laughed. And I realizedthat for the last ten years I’d been wearing a sheet over my head like a shitty Halloween ghost costume and that’s why I kept picking the bad candy out of the bunch.
    My comedian friend immediately pulled out pictures of his kids from his wallet and acted like, “Oh, hey, everyone. You walked in just in time. I was just telling Jen how great my family is. Here’s Johnny on his fifth birthday. Isn’the cute?” I subtly turned my back to concentrate on Matt.
    It turns out he was from a small beach town in Massachusetts, and I bonded with him by telling him I was from a suburb near the city. He reminded me that we had already discussed this several times. I was starting to think I either had multiple personalities or was just a complete asshole. Apparently it’s hard to pay attention to the guyright in front of you who is ready to create a story with you when you’re busy obsessing about what to write to a guy who doesn’t like you in a copy of Superfudge that he didn’t ask for.
    Matt and I talked about how excited we were that it was almost August and the Red Sox were still having a good season. I know nothing about baseball. I don’t know the stats of each player. I don’t even know thelast name of each player. I don’t know what RBI stands for. I don’t understand why with all of those steroids those baseball players are so fat.
    But I specifically liked the 2004 Red Sox team. They were a ragtag bunch of millionaires who grew their hair long, as opposed to their bitter rivals, the Yankees, a more obedient group of millionaires,