I Want to Be Where the Normal People Are

by Rachel Bloom

So thank you, Rejection, for existing. For the record, I never saw you as an unjust force hell-bent on fucking me over. My breakup was the logical conclusion to an unsustainable relationship; my improv and sketch writing skills needed more polishing and it took me years to learn how to audition well. Facing you forced me to get better and pushed my life in all sorts of new directions.

Follow my guide, and before you know it, Hollywood / Broadway / Vancouver Because That’s Where the Production Tax Breaks Are will be banging down your door!

Height: 5'3" Height on stilts: 6'5" Height when curled up into a ball crying on the phone to my parents begging them for rent money this month: 2'4" Height when being harassed at my restaurant job: Disappear into floor

My mind was really blown when I started partying with people who weren’t even in theater. As I shared bottles of Mike’s Hard Lemonade with the rebels from Marching Band or Yearbook or Model UN (my standards were low), I wondered: What about me had changed to warrant this drastic social upgrade?

Until I pretended to wax my asshole and blood splattered everywhere. As I watched the mostly male crew look away in disgust, I imagined any boners they may have had climbing up inside their bodies. It made me smile.

From our conversation, I gathered that being popular was the one thing in Megan’s life that gave her self-worth and that she was constantly afraid of that going away. Wow, I marveled, the Berenstain Bears were right: Bullies really do build themselves up by putting others down. I didn’t say the Berenstain Bears thing out loud because I didn’t want Megan to make fun of me.

I am perpetually torn between my inner rage and inability to articulate that rage.

My anger was unpolished and unrefined and it’s always been that way.

Up until this point, my only interaction with first class had been to resentfully walk through it on my way to coach. I hated the rich fucks I saw, sipping their orange juices and stroking their emotional support Pomeranians. I took comfort in knowing that, if the plane were to crash, the people in first class would die instantly and cushion the blow for us in the back.

She come home smelling sweaty and tired with strange paint on her face talking about “being on set all day.” Me try to lick the face paint off. She let me for ten seconds, then say, “Ugh, your muzzle smells like old Thai food.” Okay then, fuck off.

So then, they come in da house smelling of excitement and Champagne and Stepdad Lady is holding some sort of hard golden toy in her hand. She kneels down and says, “Mommy just won a Golden Globe, Wiley!” Uh 1. I don’t know what that is. 2. You not Mommy. 3. Gold toy too hard for Wiley to chew and destroy. 4. Gold toy is trash.

Did me going on with the show that night despite the bleeding exhibit good self-care? I don’t know. If I’m really being honest with myself, going on with the show is sometimes how I care for myself. I love what I do. It makes me really happy.

When one is fortunate enough to have a platform like I do, it’s important to use that platform to spread awareness of meaningful issues. So I’d like to take a beat to talk about what’s really important in the scheme of things: amusement parks.

And that’s when I realize: The world doesn’t revolve around me. What if a stranger not liking me isn’t the end of my life and existence and humanity? What if most people aren’t thinking much about me either way because they’re busy with their own lives? And if they are thinking about me, they carry their own biases and it’s a waste of time to parse out which opinions about me are actual statements about me as a person and which just reflect their own experiences?

The best therapist I had during this time was actually my voice teacher. He was a chill opera singer from the South who said, “My mama always compared bad thoughts to a bird in a barn. If a bird flies into the barn, you can acknowledge that there’s a bird in the barn, but you don’t have to suddenly make a nest for it. Just let the bird fly in and it’ll eventually fly out.” Which is, in essence, cognitive behavioral therapy.