[Walks on stage, mic in hand, already sweating like a phone at 2% battery.]
Hey, everybody! Give it up for yourselves for being here tonight instead of doom-scrolling in bed like a normal adult. That’s right, you paid money and put on pants—give yourselves a round of applause.
So I’m single. Not “complicated” single, like “it’s complicated” single. No, I’m “the delivery driver asks if the food is for two and I answer ‘not tonight, Jose’” single.
Dating apps are the worst. I swear the algorithm is just three unpaid interns in a basement playing Mad Libs with my dignity. “Let’s match him with a girl whose bio says ‘Looking for the Jim to my Pam.’ Perfect! He’s more of a Toby.”
And the pictures—ladies, why is every photo a group shot? It’s like a police lineup where I’m supposed to pick my future ex. “Number three looks nice, but number four might murder me. Let’s gamble.”
Guys aren’t better. Our profiles are just lies stacked like Jenga blocks. One guy’s pic is him on a yacht. Sir, that’s a pontoon at your uncle’s lake house. You’re not international, you’re interstate.
I tried to seem outdoorsy for the apps, so I went hiking once. Once. I wore sandals because I thought “trail” was short for “retail.” By mile two, my feet looked like I’d been kicking cacti for sport. A squirrel judged me. He was wearing tiny Nikes.
My mom keeps asking when I’m getting married. I told her, “Mom, I can’t even commit to a phone plan.” She says, “Just pick one!” Lady, I picked you thirty years ago, and I still don’t know if that was the right choice.
And now she’s on Facebook, sharing posts like “If your son is over 30 and single, it’s because he’s either gay or a serial killer.” Mom, I’m neither—I’m just lactose intolerant. The only thing I’m killing is the vibe when I ask if the restaurant has oat milk.
Work’s no better. My boss said, “We’re a family here.” Cool, so when do I start getting drunk at noon and pretending to like your potato salad? They gave us “unlimited PTO,” which is corporate for “we’ll fire you in your dreams.” I took one day off and came back to 600 emails and a passive-aggressive sticky note that said, “Hope it was worth it.”
But the real kicker is adulting in general. I went to the DMV last week. The lady at the counter looked at my photo and said, “You know this’ll last ten years, right?” I said, “Lady, I can’t commit to a haircut for six weeks. That’s on you.”
And groceries! Why is everything suddenly “plant-based”? I picked up a package that said “plant-based chicken nuggets.” I flipped it over—ingredients: sadness and yellow dye number five.
I miss the 90s. Back then, the only “plant-based” thing we had was smoking weed behind a Chili’s.
Alright, I’ve kept you long enough. If you enjoyed the show, tell your friends. If you didn’t, tell your enemies—they’ll hate it too. Goodnight!
