I got a colonoscopy when I was 13.

I was 13 and DEEP in the midst of a divorce-fueled depression. I could only take so many late night trips truck shopping with dad before I started questioning whether or not the Lariat package was the way to go, or if I’d be better off living with him and my stepmom. He’d regularly sweeten the pot with a trip to White Castle, a restaurant at which my younger brother swore he could out eat me.

In my prime, I probably could have crushed at least 30 of those little burgers, easy. Jared wouldn’t have stood a fucking chance. It would’ve been a real Randy Johnson vs. that one bird scenario. Poof. Over before it began.

While doing comedy I’ve been fortunate enough to run into a few folks here and there who have a profound impact on not only who I am on stage, but who I am off of it.

Jim Wiggins is in that group.

Jim was about 5′6″ if he tried and had a bullfrog’s croak of a voice. He was an undeniable presence in the room. 

Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

I peaked at 12 years old.

I had my very first
girlfriend, and my very last one for a long time, it would seem. She
was the neighbor to my best friend Dave, and was also best friends
with Dave’s girlfriend, Paige. I was sitting at home one night
when I got a phone call from Dave. He asked if I wanted a girlfriend.
What kind of stupid question was that? Of course I did. I was in
seventh grade. That was one of your main goals; obtain a Michael
Jordan rookie card, beat Super Mario 3 with no warps, and learn about
the female form, hopefully first hand. I was hopelessly ready. I was
voted to be next year’s Beta Club Vice President. I’d practically
memorized The Breakfast Club. I had my first pair of name brand
shoes.

I didn’t even know how I got there. I looked up and I’d suddenly arrived.

I sat in the drive thru as I had hundreds of times before, bathed in the soft, red glow of brake lights, and quietly cursed whatever part of my brain that drew me there. I studied the menu like I’d stumbled across some foreign establishment, which wasn’t the case at all. I was practically family. I knew Maria, the cashier whose son played trumpet in the band. I’d befriended Anna, who was working there in the midst of her third trimester and wasn’t sure if she’d come back after welcoming her baby boy into the world. I was some weird stranger to them, some guy who was overly polite, some guy who they probably questioned whether or not he had any friends. Point is, I’m familiar with the place.