Cooking has become my number one distraction during these lonely times. My Instagram has taken a harsh turn. It’s now full of mediocre food photography. There hasn’t been anything else worth posting about. I need this retreat.

I hate that.

I need a new direction and I hate that.

I need all the ridiculous, uplifting clichés to find me and pull me out of this pit.

3. A Girl Is Mildly Traumatized

JAMIE

August 26, Wednesday

California

“Next up tonight, we have a charming young comedian. You’ve seen her around, she works tickets outside the club—James George Federov!”

The crowd cheers mildly as I skip my way to center stage and stop in front of the mic. Ten minutes. I have an entire ten minutes.

I shake out my limbs, feeling more tense than usual.

I’ve got this. I’ve fucking got this. “Hey hey hey, I’m Jamie George Federov!”

Adrenaline spikes through me as I take the mic off the stand. “You’ve definitely never heard of me. I’m but the humble semi-only child of a Hollywood producer.”

The crowd chuckles.

“Yeah, my Dad’s a producer.” I throw on a haughty accent. “He fancies himself an auteur.” I nod to the crowd. “For those of you who are unfamiliar, that’s film slang for pretentious white man.”

I pull on a smug grin. “My father, the auteur. I owe him so much—most notably my charmingly dickish Hollywood nature.” I smile up at the ceiling. “Thanks, Dad.” More mild laughter.

“My dad, he’s a youthful, pretentious soul…” I sigh wistfully. “If I were to guesstimate, I’d say fifteen. He’s a pretentious fifteen-year-old boy in a forty-year-old’s body.” I wander to the right side of the stage. “I’d say I’m like a slightly frumpy forty-year-old in a”—I look down at myself in my red corduroy overalls—“twelve-year-old’s body?”

Laughter.

I wander to the left edge of the stage. “I was carded trying to see the most recent Titanic re-release in theaters a couple weeks back.

“That film is PG-13 for boobs! I’m almost twenty-one, I have two real, physical, grew-them-myself boobs. But apparently”—I point to my head—“this face screams not yet worthy of seeing Kate Winslet naked.” I catch a handful of snorts from the front row and smirk down at them.

“My pretentious dad, of course, has the latest iPhone. What is it, the iPhone 23H or something? It has a face reader. You all probably have it too; you live on Earth.

“And Dad and I, we share a similar facial structure. These knife-edge, scary cheekbones here”—I circle around the area vigorously with my pointer finger—“these are from him. When I have shades on—which is always, we live in LA—and I hold his phone to my face, the thing unlocks.”

Someone in the crowd gasps.