Read Self-Inflicted Wounds: Heartwarming Tales of Epic Humiliation Online
Authors: Aisha Tyler
Self-Inflicted Wounds: Heartwarming Tales of Epic Humiliation (28 page)
I am constantly apologizing for stuff I have said. At this point I automatically default
to apology mode, mostly as a prophylactic strategy. It’s possible I may have said
something that offended you, or that I will say something that offends you, or imply
it, or think it, or make you think it, and so let’s just get the apology out of the
way now, before you have time to get really worked up and send me an angry letter
or post something crazy on my Facebook page or try to punch me at a cocktail party.
Let’s nip all that pent-up aggression in the bud, shall we? It’s highly unhealthy.
I’m sorry.
Because I am in a constant state of sorry, I started a segment on my podcast called
“The Apologia,” the entire purpose of which is to head any offended sensibilities
or righteous indignation off at the pass and save people the busy work of dashing
off an angry missive and sending it to me in a purple huff.
The thing is, people offend so easily nowadays that letters of outrage almost don’t
mean anything anymore. Everyone is always mad all the time. Either you were too cavalier
about that subject or too precious. You supported your favorite sports team and now
children who love opposing sports teams have been psychologically scarred. You gave
too much money to shoeless orphans, when you could have spent that money on something
that would grow the economy, or you didn’t give enough, and you are a heartless bastard
who hates orphans.
Everything makes everyone furious all the freaking time, and there is always someone
out there deserving of your righteous indignation. That doesn’t mean your particular
hurt feelings aren’t warranted, or even legitimate. It’s just that people have made
a cottage industry of outrage, an art form of being deeply cut by the words of others.
Most of the time this isn’t real; this person doesn’t actually feel offended, doesn’t
really feel
anything
at all, just the swelling feeling of power that comes with forcing someone else to
backtrack and backpedal and walk back and take back and back up and just plain apologize.
So, again, I’m sorry.
And so you won’t skitter to your computer and whip off some kind of hysterical and
sobbing demand for restitution after reading this book, I thought I’d just get it
all out of the way right now.
I apologize. To you, and to:
white people
black people
skinny people
fat people
rich people
poor people
the homeless
drinkers
teetotalers
straight-edgers
crackheads
theater people
people who hate musical theater
meat eaters
vegetarians
vegetarians who secretly eat meat
people in Texas (this is redundant with meat eaters)
Asians
nail salon owners
Asian nail salon owners
other ethnicities who feel left out
soul food restaurateurs
Whitney Houston fans
hookers
johns
models
Native Americans
Gary Coleman
little kids who are offended by sex jokes
people offended by sex jokes at the expense of little kids
religious people
atheists
babies
kittens
people who hate UFC
infant bunnies
comedians
string figure experts
people who take pictures of themselves in their bathroom mirrors with their cell phones
people who love Twitter
people who hate Twitter
people who don’t understand Twitter
hipsters
vegans
hipster vegans with inexcusable mustaches
old trees
ballet dancers
people who like unscripted television
people who like scripted television
people who like
American Idol
people who have terrible taste in television shows
people with goiters
people who fear goiters
people with urophobia (fear of urine)
pitchfork mob enthusiasts
the Kardashians
whoever designed that awful see-through dress
my parents
my husband
my in-laws
my coworkers
people who can read
people who read this book
people who received this book as a gift
people I spit on accidentally at my comedy shows
Kanye West
people who love pigs
people who hate bacon
pigs who have been turned into delicious bacon
and that plump little redneck kid who drinks a lot of Mountain Dew
Now, don’t you feel better?
The Coda: Stop Doing It to Yourself
“The lessons of life amount not to wisdom, but to scar tissue and callus.”
—
W
ALLACE
S
TEGNER
“I know there’s a lesson here. I just don’t know what it is.”
—
A
ISHA
T
YLER
What
was the point of all this self-flagellation, other than to use words like self-flagellation
in a sentence?
1
Well, I hope this book can be a cautionary tale—no, 32 tiny cautionary tales—about
what can happen when you live your live recklessly and without any caution whatsoever.
I have made a lot of mistakes. I mean
a lot
. Way more than I could ever fit into this book, or would care to. I mean, I wanted
to write a funny book, not embark on Alcoholics Anonymous’s Step 4.
But I have also pursued my dreams, without reservation, and really without much thought
as to whether or not they would ever come true. I honestly never worried about that.
I just
believed
they would, and then set about making them come true. And if they didn’t (and many
of them didn’t—oh dear lord, so very many), I revised my game plan and went right
on running at it using a different play formation. If at first you don’t succeed,
sack the fucking quarterback. Make that guy
feel
it.
2
My relentlessness paid off. Not so much in “success,” or “money,” or “meeting Ryan
Gosling,” although all these things have happened, but more in the fact that I never
look back and wish I had gone after something that I didn’t. Because I
have
gone for everything I’ve wanted. Like a crazy person. Like a juggernaut.
Like a motherfucking banshee.
And I am happy, because every day I get to do stuff I love, and feel passionate about,
and pour my heart into, because it is what I was put on this planet to do, and so
regardless of remuneration, the work is its own reward. Does that sound cliché? Suck
it. I don’t care.
I also hope this book will encourage you to be even more reckless, more wild, to make
bigger, crazier, more frightening choices than I have, to chase your dreams with wild-eyed
abandon, to run headlong into the most terrifying situations, to speak freely, to
act freely, to do every single thing you have ever dreamed of doing up until this
point but didn’t do because you were scared that things might go wrong.
Because the truth is, they
will
go wrong. Terribly, mind-blowingly wrong.
But what’s the worst that can happen? Maybe you’ll be embarrassed. Maybe you will
fail. Maybe things will go exactly the opposite of how you planned. Maybe you’ll break
a limb. But one thing is for sure: if you do nothing, you’ll have done exactly that.
Nothing
.
So go out and make a bunch of mistakes. Hold your breath, close your eyes, and jump
without looking. Wreck the joint. Break some shit. At the end of it all, at the very
least, you’ll have a bunch of really awesome stories.
You only live once. You can make it six weeks in a full body cast.
Now get out there and kick some ass.
This
is my second book. Holy shit.
I really never thought I’d be here, so there’s something to be said for blind optimism
coupled with dogged relentlessness and an alarming lack of pragmatism. I could not
have felt brave enough to make the mistakes I have made, nor recovered from them as
readily, without the love and support of an incredibly resilient group of family,
friends, and beleaguered colleagues. When you are as recklessly headstrong as I am,
the people in your life must endure a lot of blowback and collateral damage. So I
better thank these people before I get into real trouble.
I have to thank my husband first, because I am not an idiot, and also because he is
the most incredible person ever birthed on planet Earth. He has made every day of
my life since I met him infinitely better. He is the man at the starting line firing
the starter’s pistol, silently mouthing “go” as I leap to my triumph or my doom, and
he has been waiting with bandages and ointment for the inevitable aftermath every
time. He has always encouraged me to go for what I want, holding my hand every precarious
step of the way. He is the blazing sun at the center of my solar system. He totally
rules my world.
Don’t tell him that, though. I need him to take out the trash.
And my parents, to whom I dedicated this book, and who truly made me, first literally,
and then figuratively, into the person that I am. I have been Googling like crazy,
but I cannot come up with the words to express how grateful I am for everything they
have done for me. And to me. They are artists, and pragmatists, and dreamers, and
thoughtful, and supportive, and crazy, and hilarious, and I would not be here without
them. I could not have conjured up a better pair of people from whose loins to spring.
I hit the jackpot.
I want to thank my sister, who is my spirit animal, and way cooler, funnier, smarter,
braver, and more badass than me. And she has more tattoos. Seriously. Why is she so
awesome? There are not enough hours in the day for us to talk on the phone. Thank
god for texting.
Thanks to Zenobia, who has a mind more complex and delightful than an Escher painting
and is one of the smartest, most creative, and most brilliantly beautiful people I
know. And Sam, whose passion for art, music, film, history, cultural legacy, and especially
my mother, continually inspire me.
My manager, Will Ward, who always tells the truth, even when it hurts, has rescued
me from myself more than once (including that trainwreck of a night in Aspen), and
has always encouraged my wild-eyed dreaming. He has been there from the beginning,
and for a million beginnings that have come since. He is my Jerry Maguire.
My book agent, Dan Strone, who has been smart, elegant, thoughtful, and restrained—everything
I am not—and also wildly enthusiastic and supportive, which is the quickest way to
my heart.
My editor, Carrie Thornton, who has the patience of a saint. She fought for me, fought
with me, and fought through many iterations of this unwieldy woodshop project to get
us here, but she never flagged. Because of her, when you pull the trunk, my ceramic
elephant lights up beautifully. And thanks to Cal Morgan, Kevin Callahan, Michael
Barrs, Joseph Papa, Brittany Hamblin, and everyone at It Books, whose enthusiasm and
passion have propelled me forward on a wave of awesome.
My team at ROAR: Jordan, Bernie, Greg, and Jay; and at UTA: Chris, Brett, and Max.
You are my khalasar.
I have a bunch of long-suffering friends who have given opinions when requested, endured
late-night emails and last-minute queries, come to my standup shows, listened to all
of my podcasts, and generally helped me do everything I have ever done. Also, I have
exploited the details of their lives on occasion in print, so I suppose I should thank
them. Todd, Kimberly, Molly, Ben, Serene, and Michele, thank you so much for bearing
up under the punishing weight of my friendship. You deserve a medal. I hope cocktails
will do.
I want to thank South Korea for the profusion of awesomely bewildering and wonderful
K-Pop bands, to which I listened almost exclusively while writing, and whose totally
incomprehensible and yet dazzlingly killer music videos provided fantastic study break
material.
And I want to thank my fans, without whom I would have nothing, including the ability
to make fun of myself constantly, without relent or remorse. Thanks for laughing.
At me or with me, I don’t really care. You guys are awesome.
Finally, thanks to the Girl on Guy Army. We made this together.
You are my army, and you are legion.
Late.
Aisha Tyler
is a comedian, actress, author, television host, podcaster, and recovering nerd.
She is cohost of the Emmy-nominated daytime talk show
The Talk
, the voice of sexy superspy Lana Kane on FX’s hit animated series
Archer
, and host of the all-new
Whose Line Is It, Anyway?
on the CW. She is also the creator, producer, and host of the award-winning podcast
Girl on Guy with Aisha Tyler
, consistently ranked one of the top ten comedy podcasts on iTunes. Tyler tours as
a standup comedian nationwide, and has contributed to
Oprah
,
Wired
,
Glamour
, and
Entertainment Weekly
magazines. She lives in Los Angeles, where she reads postapocalyptic fiction and
plays video games in her meager spare time.
aishatyler.com | girlonguy.net
twitter.com/aishatyler | facebook.com/aishatyler
#selfinflictedwounds | #siw
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