Tyler Aisha - Self-inflicted wounds : heartwarming tales of epic humiliation

Aisha Tyler is a comedian, actress, author, television host, podcaster, and recovering nerd. She is cohost of the Emmy-nominated daytime talk show The Talk , the voice of sexy superspy Lana Kane on FXs hit animated series Archer , and host of the all-new Whose Line Is It, Anyway? on the CW. She is also the creator, producer, and host of the award-winning podcast Girl on Guy with Aisha Tyler , consistently ranked one of the top ten comedy podcasts on iTunes. Tyler tours as a standup comedian nationwide, and has contributed to Oprah , Wired , Glamour , and Entertainment Weekly magazines. She lives in Los Angeles, where she reads postapocalyptic fiction and plays video games in her meager spare time.

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This is my second book. Holy shit.

I really never thought Id be here, so theres something to be said for blind optimism coupled with dogged relentlessness and an alarming lack of pragmatism. I could not have felt brave enough to make the mistakes I have made, nor recovered from them as readily, without the love and support of an incredibly resilient group of family, friends, and beleaguered colleagues. When you are as recklessly headstrong as I am, the people in your life must endure a lot of blowback and collateral damage. So I better thank these people before I get into real trouble.

I have to thank my husband first, because I am not an idiot, and also because he is the most incredible person ever birthed on planet Earth. He has made every day of my life since I met him infinitely better. He is the man at the starting line firing the starters pistol, silently mouthing go as I leap to my triumph or my doom, and he has been waiting with bandages and ointment for the inevitable aftermath every time. He has always encouraged me to go for what I want, holding my hand every precarious step of the way. He is the blazing sun at the center of my solar system. He totally rules my world.

Dont tell him that, though. I need him to take out the trash.

And my parents, to whom I dedicated this book, and who truly made me, first literally, and then figuratively, into the person that I am. I have been Googling like crazy, but I cannot come up with the words to express how grateful I am for everything they have done for me. And to me. They are artists, and pragmatists, and dreamers, and thoughtful, and supportive, and crazy, and hilarious, and I would not be here without them. I could not have conjured up a better pair of people from whose loins to spring. I hit the jackpot.

I want to thank my sister, who is my spirit animal, and way cooler, funnier, smarter, braver, and more badass than me. And she has more tattoos. Seriously. Why is she so awesome? There are not enough hours in the day for us to talk on the phone. Thank god for texting.

Thanks to Zenobia, who has a mind more complex and delightful than an Escher painting and is one of the smartest, most creative, and most brilliantly beautiful people I know. And Sam, whose passion for art, music, film, history, cultural legacy, and especially my mother, continually inspire me.

My manager, Will Ward, who always tells the truth, even when it hurts, has rescued me from myself more than once (including that trainwreck of a night in Aspen), and has always encouraged my wild-eyed dreaming. He has been there from the beginning, and for a million beginnings that have come since. He is my Jerry Maguire.

My book agent, Dan Strone, who has been smart, elegant, thoughtful, and restrainedeverything I am notand also wildly enthusiastic and supportive, which is the quickest way to my heart.

My editor, Carrie Thornton, who has the patience of a saint. She fought for me, fought with me, and fought through many iterations of this unwieldy woodshop project to get us here, but she never flagged. Because of her, when you pull the trunk, my ceramic elephant lights up beautifully. And thanks to Cal Morgan, Kevin Callahan, Michael Barrs, Joseph Papa, Brittany Hamblin, and everyone at It Books, whose enthusiasm and passion have propelled me forward on a wave of awesome.

My team at ROAR: Jordan, Bernie, Greg, and Jay; and at UTA: Chris, Brett, and Max. You are my khalasar.

I have a bunch of long-suffering friends who have given opinions when requested, endured late-night emails and last-minute queries, come to my standup shows, listened to all of my podcasts, and generally helped me do everything I have ever done. Also, I have exploited the details of their lives on occasion in print, so I suppose I should thank them. Todd, Kimberly, Molly, Ben, Serene, and Michele, thank you so much for bearing up under the punishing weight of my friendship. You deserve a medal. I hope cocktails will do.

I want to thank South Korea for the profusion of awesomely bewildering and wonderful K-Pop bands, to which I listened almost exclusively while writing, and whose totally incomprehensible and yet dazzlingly killer music videos provided fantastic study break material.

And I want to thank my fans, without whom I would have nothing, including the ability to make fun of myself constantly, without relent or remorse. Thanks for laughing. At me or with me, I dont really care. You guys are awesome.

Finally, thanks to the Girl on Guy Army. We made this together.

You are my army, and you are legion.

Late.

Swerve

( 1 )

The wound is the place where the Light enters you. R UMI

This is gonna need ointment. A ISHA T YLER

When I was about five years old, I stabbed myself in the chest.

Well, not exactly stabbed . More like sliced. Yes. I sliced myself nose to navel, as if conducting a frog dissection in science class. Only without the relatively sanitary tools, face protection, or pursuit of scientific truth.

And, also, on myself .

I could say it wasnt my fault. I could protest that it was an accidentunforeseen, unpredictable, unkind, unfair. None of that would be true. I did this on purpose. I knew exactly what I was getting into. The entire debacle was calculated, focused, and gleefully headlong.

Before you gasp in horror and thinly disguised pity, this was no suicide attempt. I was not trying to gut myself. At the same time, I can blame no one else for the bloody vertical striping that occurred.

I courted that stabbing, poked at it with a metaphorical stick, taunted it like a rangy pit bull behind a wobbly storm fence, mocking and laughing as it slavered in captivityright up to the moment the dog leapt, snarling against the wire, knocking the fence to the ground like a structure of drinking straws and me face-first into the dirt. Or, more accurately, face-first into the hot, abrasive summer pavement.

Some might call such behavior stupid. They would be one hundred percent right.

Heres the thing. I am uniquely, and occasionally quite stupidly, fearless. I have never been afraid. Well, not truly afraid. I have had moments of trepidation, acted tentatively on occasion. Tiptoed toward my fate timorously, doubts creeping, internal alarms blaring. Occasionally, I exercise a bit of caution. But more often, and to my sustained chagrin, I run sprinting toward my own demise, without consideration or forethought. I like to shoot first and ask questions about why there is a bullet lodged deeply in my own foot much, much later.