Today I published this piece in Punchnel's: A Woman Walks Into A Life-Changing Sex Comedy Show.

This piece is a big deal for me, although it's possible that won't be clear in reading it. It's not written in my usual style (long-winded, endlessly verbose, looooonnnnnng-winded). That's because the editors at Punchnel's were like, "Hey, we will consider publishing this piece, but it needs to be edited a LOT." The original version started with a bunch of paragraphs about women in comedy. Here are some of the paragraphs that got cut:

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Just because you weren't born somewhere doesn't mean you shouldn't live there! Although, please do the right thing and adjust for gentrification. "Just because you weren't born somewhere doesn't mean you shouldn't live there" is something that mostly privileged white people get to say. OK? Cool! Now take this quiz and enjoy your privilege!

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Yesterday I went on a date. It was not a date with myself -- I am kind of good at those, though, because I'm a great conversationalist, and so am I. But this time around, I went on a date with my roommate, Derek.

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Yesterday my friend Charles invited me to play frisbee golf with him. 

That's not actually accurate. He invited me to join him and his (very good-looking) friends to play laser tag, which everyone knows is totally different from frisbee golf. He said, "Meet us in City Park, we are all going to play laser tag." And I thought, "That's a fun and quirky way to celebrate Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. I will go and do that, I think."

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I searched for "salamander" in my Gmail box on a whim (who knows. I don't know. It just felt like what I ought to do) and this came up. It's an old love letter. It really struck me deeply, and against maybe my better judgment I'm sharing it. 

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It's amazing what makes sense in the woods.

Vastness, for one thing. How big everything is. The scope of a single tree: leaves, branches, bark, needles, seed pods, roots. The scope of many trees: oaks, sycamores, pines, alders, in groves, along hillsides, upwards. The sky, which is deep, like a bowl you will never glimpse the bottom of. The earth, which is old and dark and wise.

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I was a fat kid. Like, really, really fat. I'm not saying this to get your pity (although, pity me if you feel like it; I was pitiably fat). I was fat enough that my family was concerned and spoke to me about it several times. My mother took me to a nutritionist and everything. People talked to me about it like I didn't realize I was fat. This kind of gentle, "You know, honey... what's going on with... your body... is a serious thing." Because I was so aware I was fat, and so aware that everyone was aware I was fat, I stress-ate in private. I couldn't fit under my bed, but BEHIND my bed was a great spot to drink soy sauce and eat maraschino cherries.  

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It's not just me. There are lots of us who are weird about books. We just don't necessarily announce ourselves. Crazy book people are notoriously introverted.

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I have been traveling since the week of Thanksgiving. 

I should re-write that, because I haven't been "traveling" the way that long-haired, beautiful, bohemian people who wear waterproof pants and straw hats mean it. Yesterday I went to my local bike shop, and the owner said, "It's been a long time since I've seen you! Where have you been?" I said, "Oh, traveling." He said, "Where have you been traveling?" I said, "Oh, you know, Belize, Greece. Places like that."

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For a while, I was writing in my blog every day. That was back when I was doing it "secretly." In quotes, because I always sent everything to my sister Alexis, who reliably said, "SOPHIE YOU ARE THE BEST WRITER IN THE WORLD LET'S BE BOYFRIENDS." That was, for a while, enough for me, and I was in a pretty good practice.

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Dear Satchmo,

What's up? How are you? Have you been sleeping with the electric blanket on during the day? That's a fire hazard, but I approve because it's very impressive that your little non-human paws can turn that thing on all by themselves.

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1. Make breakfast. How good is breakfast? All the good foods are relevant at breakfast: pancakes, waffles, steamed green things, scrambled whatever-you-want, caramelized onions, assorted breads in assorted baskets, coffee, orange juice, all the fruits -- I could go on and on. It's like at the beginning of time someone was like, "Man, mornings really suck. I have an idea! Let's have a designated time where we eat ALL THE GOOD FOODS in the morning, and then we won't think being alive is the worst thing possible." That person was a really smart person. Breakfast makes life seem a lot less dire. And yet, alas. Busy, busy Modern-Day Man is always SKIPPING breakfast! Or throwing a Pop Tart in her backpack and running out the door. Or going to Burger King to order a Diet Coke at 7 a.m. One day, Modern-Day Man will be old and dying, and she will look back at her life and wonder why she didn't eat more breakfast. There are so few complete and total pleasures in life. Breakfast is one of them. It is also really good for you: there are scads of articles on the health benefits of breakfast.  So this year I will go to bed a little earlier so I can wake up a little earlier so I can make more breakfast. I'll try not to Instagram it too often.

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I have kept a diary religiously since I was five. (I say "religiously" at least in part because until I was an atheist, I believed that my diary was basically a telegram service to God.) I often wrote open-ended questions as if someone was going to read my diary and answer them. A sample: Who will ever love me? Will I ever be loved? Would I be loved if I was less fat? What IS love, anyway? I am alone, and fat, and should I therefore basically be dead? Etc. 

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SHORT DESCRIPTIONS OF ALL THE MEN I HAVE MET SINCE I HAVE BEEN IN GREECE, ALL OF WHOM I HAVE CONSIDERED MAKING OUT WITH:

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