“Wooooooooo, we’re going streaking! Streaking in the quad!” – Frank Ricard

Last Friday, the 14th, I woke up naked to police and medics on the 23rd floor of Arlington Towers condos.

At a comedy club one night the host introduced ‘a guy who has been cleaning the floors here at the comedy clubs for 20 years, and finally wants to try out 3-4 minutes for you, is that okay, folks?’

The crowd would allow it, and he would come out to try his act for the first time.

It would go bad, but he would gain the audience’s sympathy, and they would be polite at the end and applaud.

He then would get off stage, and the host comedian would say, ‘are you ready for your headliner?”….and out would walk the same comedian.

…and he would kill. He did this for 20+ years.

The above story is one of my favorite stories about comedy.

That’s what I wish I could write about.

I want to write about how I wish Mitt Romney would win the election, so I could go back to having my dad be happy with a Republican president in office. Maybe then he wouldn’t talk politics and disdain 24/7 when I come over for dinner.

I want to write about how funny it was that my dick fell asleep this morning for like, 15 minutes. It was hilarious. I kept whacking it against the side of the wall and the bathroom counter, I couldn’t feel a thing. It was hysterical. However, maybe I should see a doctor…

I want to write about funny events that have happened to me in my youth.

I want to write about Green Day.

But, instead-

Last Friday, the 14th, I woke up naked to police and medics on the 23rd floor of Arlington Towers condos.

I’m ashamed.

I’m scared.

I’m embarrassed.

From last Friday, the 14th, until Tuesday, the 18th, I was admitted to the same state mental institution that I was at merely four months ago.

This officially isn’t an isolated incident anymore, it’s a pattern.

Fuck.

I remember around 5:15pm rolling down my passenger window on Lakeside and throwing out my laptop computer.

Then my iPhone.

Then my wallet.

There was no going back, I was headed to the 23rd floor of Arlington towers to Jump.

I was tired.

I was fucking wasted*.

I parked my car, and left it running in the temporary (15 min) loading-zone parking, then took the elevator to the top of the roof.

It was beautiful.

I decided I would shed my clothes, and jump off the roof; thus ending my life naked, the same way I came into it.

..or some hippy bullshit like that.

I was fucking naked.

Naked.

Like, the kind of naked that doesn’t involve clothes.

I ran at the ledge to finally take a stand to my depression.

..and as soon as I hit the edge, a big voice boomed over me and proclaimed-

“FUCK THAT SHIT THIS IS FUCKING HIGH!”

“…how about we just take a nap on the concrete instead?”

Okay, sounds good.

When I woke up, there was the Arlington Tower door-WOMAN standing over me.

“Hey, stop that. Hey, sir, stop um, naked-ing?”

I looked up at her for a split-second, and proceeded to pass out again on the cool concrete.

It was now 10:00pm at night.

In a few minutes I would feel the police and EMTs circle around me, prop me up…and avoid any eye contact with me and my naughty bits.

Holy fuck I was naked.

I was only wearing socks…which is almost more embarrassing.

 

This was one for the record books, America.

I blew a .021, which means I had about as much alcohol in me as a tablespoon of cough syrup.

WHAT?!

No way. I had at least, like, 80 beers. I totally remember.

80 beers.

Right?!

Nope, I had 3.

3 beers.

By 10pm, I was as sober as a nun.

What caused this feeling of being trashed then?

SEROQUEL.

The new medication I bitched about in my last entry. The zombie drug. The drug that sedates me more than asking Mishon how her day went.

Seroquel is like Wu-Tang…it aint nothing to fuck wit’.

Seroquel also has an adorable side-effect of making the person taking it, “more suicidal if they are thinking of suicide.”

Wow.

That’s like helping a sex-addict quit by prescribing them 50mg of vagina and to call them in the morning.

I was naked.

I was scared.

…and I was going right back to the nuthouse.

I don’t want to write about my recent visit.

I don’t want to write about depression anymore.

It’s not fun.

I’m done with it.

I’m tired of my case of ‘sad suburban, white-kid syndrome.’ I Realize what I  have, I’m thankful for it, and I just want to write about boners…that shit is hilarious.

I feel better. In fact, I feel a lot better.

I’m off those meds, I’m on some promising new ones that don’t make me feel like how Kristen Stewart’s face looks.

I want to be normal.

I want to be naked only in places I should be- my bed, the shower, and Carl’s Jr.

I’m better than this.

I’m funnier than this.

I’m very well dressed.

Thanks everyone for the support, and I can’t wait to make a comedy bit out of this.