a stab at fiction...which blog does this belong in?

She was tired.

How many more underpaid hosting gigs, late late shows, overpriced beers, angry drunks, boob jokes, and furtive unisex-bathroom handjobs can one woman take? Apparently, plenty. Was this how Laura Kightlinger got that Will and Grace gig? How Janeane Garofalo got, well, nowhere fast at this point....but she did have half an SNL season. Half. Who the hell had ever heard of Maya fucking Rudolph? Seriously. Women fucking standups without a gimmick or a guitar or a great rack-n-ass....she hated her fucking life right about now, which was two forty-five am, not even a handjob to her credit. Which would have gotten her one back, inept as it may have been, but it would have woken her up enough to go home and write some, maybe clean her bathroom. Fucking pathetic. Do girls get “handjobs?” Is there a joke in there….Always thinking….Write it down in the cab.

She studied the pileup of comics outside the club after the late late show...the funniest and most desirable (some overlap in that Venn diagram, albeit not total) having filtered out some time ago; some pathetic pairings being attempted, awkwardly, as even the manliest and studliest of male comics were never, ever candidates for the James Bond award. The rest stood in a half-circle of indecisiveness and overtired buzz-weariness, smoke circling, being bumped by coked-up Canadian and Mittleuropean tourists, replacing the usual crush of NYU assholes who were shipped back to their native counties on holiday break. A superstretch limo, apparently abandoned by all but their driver, attempted to drum up business from the underemployed clot of them, and they just laughed and waved him off, his pathos not even bit-worthy.

She waved, shook hands, back-slapped the rest of them, after gear-spinning in her head for the briefest time and remembering the laundry on her bed, and the plane tickets to LA awaiting her at LaGuardia. Everyone wished everyone else a pleasant, drunken, non-suicidal New Year's and started to peel off gradually, and she hopped a cab – alone - to her dismal nth floor walkup on the Lower East Side.

She wasn't going to watch the ball drop this year, because it would just be wrong. Wrong. Not on time, no Dick Clark, too late, too early....wrong.

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