Stage fright is the sudden awareness you’re not good at something and might never be good, no matter how bad you want it.

I developed stage fright in a comedy class taught by Amy Poehler. It was horrible. I used to vomit before class and right after I got on stage, I’d have to rush to the toilet so I could explode with rocket diarrhea. I used to hear people laughing at me through the wall. The bathroom was in the back of the theater, behind a thin wall. It was the only time I was capable of generating laughs but it wasn’t intentional.

I know what it means to be scared shitless.

I’d like to say I recognized my shortcomings and quit Amy’s class. But I kept coming. I kept bombing. I kept shitting my brains out. It was horrible but I never looked better.

I was miserable doing comedy. I’d like to say I didn’t continue on to the next level. But I did. I took the next level, where things only got worse, as my choices on stage got more extreme, out of desperation, and I began pushing away the friends I’d made over the course of the program. Finally, I bombed so bad in a show, I couldn’t face myself. I quit, vowing never to go back. But vows are funny. Eventually you end up eating your vows.

Vows taste like chicken.

About a year later, I began craving the failure. So I jumped back into comedy classes at The Upright Citizens Brigade Theater, a comedy club in New York City founded by Matt Besser, Matt Walsh, Ian Roberts and Amy Poehler.

I loved it.

I went back to the beginning levels, slowly making my way up through the ranks of the program. There was a feeling in my approach to getting back on stage that I had somehow learned what I couldn’t force myself to get by taking the time off to reclaim my sense of joy. It was fun again. The work was hard, harder than ever. I bombed worse than ever. But I was capable of handling it.

I never did fit in, not entirely. I never was cast to appear in an improv ensemble. Not at The Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre. I had to move on, finding the opportunity somewhere else. I had to let go, not of the desire to kill in a comedy club without the assistance of diarrhea, but of the need to fit into a circle of people who didn’t want me.

I didn’t belong. And it’s okay.

I had the same experience when I returned to the community of my youth to run Max’s Deli. I didn’t fit in, even though I did my best to look like I belonged. This time around, the explosion didn’t emanate from my asshole. It was the Rosh Hashanah Menu, a call of atonement I created to challenge Donald J. Trump after the horrifying events of Charlottesville. I thought it was a good idea. But the community of my youth didn’t agree.

They’re all Trump all the time.

I knew this, instinctively, even though I was in denial, thinking they’d come along with me, or better yet, laugh with me, or better yet, ignore me and keep eating pastrami.

The pastrami stopped selling. The room pulled away from me. There were no laughs. I bombed. Never in my life have I bombed so bad. I’d like to say I didn’t go back. But I did. I’d like to say I was sorry. But I’m not. I’d like to say I miss the job.

I do. I miss the job. And the people. But I don’t miss the pastrami.