Stand-up Routine

Hey everyone, how's it going tonight? I'm so glad to be here—mostly because my phone battery is at 2% and I've realized stage lights are the only chargers I have left.

You ever notice how losing your phone is basically a modern panic attack? You pat every pocket like you're defusing a bomb: "Is it in my jeans? The couch? The fridge—because that's obviously where I left it during last night's snack-fest?" And once you actually find it, it's like reuniting with a needy ex. It's vibrating, chirping, begging for updates you don't even remember downloading.

My daily cardio routine is opening apps. Instagram, TikTok, Twitter—two hours later I'm deeply invested in someone's tutorial on how to train your cat not to vomit on your favorite rug. Have you ever tried replying to a midnight group chat? Your thumbs start logging miles on the keyboard, you wake up to 47 notifications… none of which you can respond to before coffee. Coffee, by the way, is the only adult decision I'll make before 9 a.m. It's judged if you skip it, celebrated if you have three cups, and somehow worth its weight in gold.

Speaking of independence, I attempted self-checkout at the grocery store. Bad move. I scanned a cucumber ten times. The machine yells, "Unexpected item in the bagging area!" I hold it up like it's contraband. There's a security guard in the aisle giving me that "Not again, Greg" look. Finally a cashier comes over, fixes it in two seconds, and I swear the whole queue applauded. Self-checkout technology—it's there just to remind you you're terrible at adulting.

Then there's online dating, which I tried as sort of an outsourced therapy session. On my first date, I show up ten minutes late because my phone was desperately clinging to 30%. We start chatting, and ten minutes in, I realize I'm texting my mom under the table. My date gives me the side-eye: "Everything okay?" And I'm like, "Sure, I just need to make sure mom knows I didn't get abducted." Nothing kills romance like a group chat with your parents.

I've seen a therapist, too. He said, "Try journaling your feelings." I took it literally—now I show up with bullet points, bar graphs, and color-coded mood charts. Last session he said, "Put the pie charts away." I think I saw a tear in his eye.

So here I am, my phone gasping its last breath, my lettuce roasted by fluorescent lights, and my therapist off maternity leave soon. If anyone's got a charger, a cucumber that scans itself, or a date who doesn't judge midnight texts to your mom, I'm all ears. You've been awesome—thank you, good night!