Admittedly, I do not have special needs. Of course, there would be nothing wrong if I did, but I was misplaced and I felt it. Like when someone kind of famous goes on Survivor.

I have some sort of learning disability similar to dyslexia. It might possibly be dyslexia, but whatever it is affects my memory, so who’s to say. I keep forgetting I have this thing. Not because of the thing itself, but because I am an adult and you can’t just walk around talking about all the things you have all the time.

There was a time when it used to be all anyone could talk about. Teachers were constantly telling my parents I was illiterate (that’s a hard word to spell, by the way), there was testing, more testing. I remember being 10 years old crying over a Dr. Seuss book because what are these weird words and letters and images, but he made a lot of that shit up so that one’s not my fault! And can’t forget popcorn reading.

Popcorn reading is so cruel. Not to mention, named after my favorite food of all time. I do believe popcorn was created for dyslexics. It is so simple. Just one button on the microwave and it’s usually labeled. It couldn’t be easier to open the bag, either. You can go from the top OR the bottom. Get popcorn reading and guns out of the classroom.

If you didn’t have popcorn reading, congratulations and I will explain. In popcorn reading, you read a bit of your textbook to the class and then you popcorn “Sarah”. Now Sarah has to read. Not Sarah H, Sarah H can shut the fuck up with Sarah P and Sarah S.

I remember no one popcorn-ing me. They said it would take forever and called me stupid, and turns out my memory is great when it comes to something terrible. Aren’t the stupid kids supposed to be popular and the smart kids nerds? I’ve tried reminding them of this and suggesting that maybe, perhaps, they are stupid.

I hate saying this because it’s embarrassing, but the truth is I had to work 10 times harder than everyone else around me. Teachers always said that to me like it was an accomplishment. One teacher said in front of my entire math class, “If you all worked as hard as Olivia you would be a rocket scientist.”

Then why am I not a rocket scientist, bitch?

Working that hard takes up so much time. I have felt my whole life that I am constantly missing out. Comedy is no different. First of all, when comedians talk they use words and those words are made up of letters and I hate those. Second, memorizing a joke and simply processing my thoughts requires a lot of isolation and alone time for me. It feels like for me to be successful at anything I have to put all of my grit into it because I am not like everyone else around me. It’s hard for me to say that my brain is not like everyone else’s. There are quite literally wires missing. Usually not being like everyone else—particularly if you’re a woman—is supposed to be interesting and kind of sexy. However, I don’t think of it in the “she has a belly button ring and it works” kind of way, but in the “she picks the skin off her hand” kind of way.

With each level of this career is a new challenge, a new lesson, a new rule. Constant schooling I thought I was done with. To try and understand the intensity of my processing, please read the following segment while playing “O Fortuna”, Carmina Burana.

I have my tour schedule opened in a tab. My flight search is in another tab. I will look at a date on the schedule. I will confirm that date on the flight. I will look again. I will confirm again. I will check once more. One more time after this. This part is critical and the tickets are non-refundable. I do it again for the next flight and the next. Once I booked it the wrong year, another the wrong month, losing 2000 dollars. I cannot fuck this up again. An hour has gone by. I click confirm. I confirm again. Confirmation is sent to my email. I have booked my flight at the wrong airport. ORD does not mean Orlando. It means O’Hare.

You can turn the song off now.

I have no idea where I am on a map at any given time. I can’t read a clock. I have forgotten my best friend’s name. My vocabulary is small. I know things, but I can’t tell you what exactly. I think I might be smart, but I couldn’t say why.

I am learning to accept my mind as it is. Kind of like body positivity for my brain. Maybe one day it will feel comfortable in a tube top. I thought there would be a time of “proving them wrong” and finally being “smart”. I’m actually not sure who these smart people are. Where are they? Are they all brunette women with bangs?

I need help. I’ve been sharing more in professional settings that I have a disability. “The script will be funny, but there will be typos.” It’s even possible that the script will be so funny because my brain isn’t wasting time on what isn’t creative thinking. My jokes are a surprise because I can’t see where you thought it was going to begin with. I can’t remember, so I get to learn every day. I’m struggling in my career because I have one.

Never once was I like, “What would it feel like to lose a stand-up comedy competition show in front of Kevin Hart, Chris Rock, and my mom?”—even when I was approaching the high probability of that happening.

There is a cat named Sergio (he’s Spanish) who lives below me and will never stop trying to get into my apartment. When I see he’s out, I have to pretend to walk the other way for a while. He joins me and we stroll. After a few beats, I turn quickly and sprint into my apartment, shutting the door behind me, screaming, “I’M SORRY, SERGIO! BUT YOU ARE NOT MINE TO KEEP.”

That’s sort of what it felt like.

Honestly, I was too busy to prepare myself for failure. Also, everyone tells you not to do that. You can’t think negatively! You have to imagine yourself succeeding! If you don’t root for you, who will?

I don’t know why “failure” is such a naughty word. Since my big televised failure, I’ve been imagining others. First, I imagined myself failing at comedy. I’d probably still do it and it would be fine. Or I’d find something else I’d like to be just as obsessive and cocooned with. Then, I imagined my relationships failing. There would be pain, and I would live.

I just think it would have been fine if I had allowed myself to imagine failing, because then there would be the “next thought.” And when I think about the next thought, my heartbeat slows down a bit.

Sergio keeps coming by because I always stop and pet him and tell him he’s a fat little fuck. One day I know he will get in. He already has—twice.

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