My manager at the airlines was the same nice, nerdy white guy I talked about before.
Manager: “Tiffany, that’s blood. You’re bleeding. You’re standing in a puddle of blood. You have to go. We’re calling 911. Are you pregnant or something?”
Tiffany: “No, I’m not pregnant or anything. I can’t stop bleeding. I don’t know why I’m bleeding.”
It was so embarrassing. All I could think about was that I didn’t have insurance, and I couldn’t pay for an ambulance.
Tiffany: “I don’t want to pay for an ambulance. Just call my grandma.”
My grandma came and took me to the hospital. They couldn’t figure out what was wrong. There was nothing in my tests. They kept me in the hospital overnight. Nothing showed up that was actually wrong. No fibroids. Nothing. They couldn’t figure it out.
They gave me some medication, like some birth control stuff that’s supposed to make it stop. My stomach also felt like it was on fire, like it was burning up. They said I didn’t have ulcers or nothing like that, but they gave me something for it.
I got so skinny. I was down to 110 pounds.
I felt like I was dying. I was crying all the time, bleeding all the time. My stomach was hurting all the time. I was so fucking sick.
They eventually gave me some antidepressants. They recommended that I see a psychiatrist, so I did.
The therapist was nice. She talked to me all about my life and everything, and I was constantly crying in there. But it was weird, because everything I said, she would laugh. She’d be giggling and stuff.
Tiffany: “Why you laughing? This shit’s not funny! My life fucking sucks!”
She’d stop and compose herself. But pretty soon, she’d be laughing again.
Therapist: “Tiffany, what do you love to do? What makes you happy?”
Tiffany: “I like teeth. Maybe I should just be a dentist, because I really love teeth. I really like the way teeth look, but I don’t want to hurt anybody, so maybe I could just be the dental assistant.”
She laughed at that, too.
Therapist: “Have you ever thought about comedy?”
Tiffany: “It’s funny you say that. I like seeing people smile, hearing laughter. That makes me happy. You know, I used to do comedy, in high school.”
Remember when I went to Laugh Factory Comedy Camp? And how great that was? And remember how I had stopped doing comedy when I had got kicked out of my grandma’s house at eighteen? I stopped doing comedy because it wasn’t paying anything. Right? I told her all about that. About how great it was for me, and why I quit.
Therapist: “Well, maybe you should start doing that again, at least as a hobby. Do stand-up comedy again. It made you so happy then, why not now?”
Well, fuck. I forgot about that. I forgot how much I loved comedy. I forgot how much joy it brought me.
I decided to try it, do some open mics. Basically, open mic is some shit that anyone can get up and do.
I thought about it, and I prepared, and I got ready. I got up and did five minutes, and I got a ton of laughs. It was amazing. I went back the next night, did the same five-minute set, but with some improvements. It was even better. People loved it.
Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I was bringing the house down and people were in tears at my brilliance, throwing roses on the stage, and screaming my name. That shit didn’t happen for at least ten more years
But open mics are tough. Most of the people suck and aren’t funny, and the crowd can get annoyed and become hostile. To get any laughs at an open mic is really good. And I got laughs. People liked me. They enjoyed it.
It was like, the smallest thing, but it was so profound for me. I had known this at fifteen, that this was my calling, and I had quit. And now here I was, telling my stories and hearing people laugh at them and feeling that rush again.
I started doing lots of open mics, getting my comedy chops back again. And the more time that I spent on comedy, the more the bleeding stopped. The stomach pains stopped. The crying and depression stopped.
I don’t know how or why, but all the bad shit stopped. All of it. Just from doing open mics.
I started to become more happy and more joyous. I started thinking more positive. I started reading positive books.
Then Titus tried to get me back. He started coming to my open mics, and he would write jokes and put them in my mailbox or whatever. They were terrible jokes! Fucking knock-knock shit! I was done with him, though. I’d already fucked Roscoe by this point, and I had re-found comedy, I didn’t have no time in my life for a fake pimp who thought I was worth $38.
I kept doing open mics and kept feeling better, and then I got my first paid gig. It almost derailed me, and sent me off comedy forever.
One of my aunties called me and said her friend was having some women’s group meeting or something, and they wanted me to perform at their event.
Aunt: “And it pays $50.”
Tiffany: “Yeah, right. How much time they want me to do? Two hours?”
Aunt: “They want you to do fifteen minutes. That’s it.”
Tiffany: “Oh hell yes!”
I got there, and I knew it was a women’s event ahead of time, but damn, there were NO men there. I had come with another comedian friend, a guy, and he was like:
Friend: “Tiffany, a lot of these ladies sure is leaning in close to each other.”
Tiffany: “Oh, they probably can’t hear each other over the music.”
I came out onto the stage, all excited and ready to give my fifteen-minute set. I’d been practicing and refining it at open mics. My jokes were all about dating and having a man, and this woman yelled out:
Woman: “I bet you I can fuck you better than your man!”
I was like, What did she say? I just stood there confused for a second, because I just did not believe she could have said that. Then I kept going with another joke about a man. Then some other woman yelled out:
Woman: “We don’t want to hear about no men. Damn, baby. Your body look good. You fine! Let’s talk about that!”
I’d been interrupted twice now, and I was too confused to keep going, so I blurted out, kind of kidding:
Tiffany: “What is this? A lesbian event or some shit?”
Everybody in unison was like, “Yeah.”
Tiffany: “Oh, shit! Nobody told me this shit!”
That got a big laugh. I was so uncomfortable. I didn’t know what to do, so I just did what I always do when I’m uncomfortable: I made shit WAY WORSE.
I started talking about dick even more, and then I just kept talking about dick. I was going on about all the dicks, and then some woman blurts out:
Lesbian: “I got a drawer full of dicks for you, and you can pick any one you want, baby!”
That got the best laugh yet from the crowd.
Tiffany: “Okay, no. I was talking about one that is actually attached to a man. I love men. Let me tell you about men and they dicks!”