Andrew J. Lederer

For a variety of reasons, not all of them narcissistic, I decided to make last year's primary Edinburgh show a chronicle of the previous year in my oh-so-fascinating existence. I didn't know how the year would turn out, only that I was increasingly fucked; in a drugless, alcohol-less, nevertheless downward spiral.

As the months passed, I monitored my days, getting excited if something else seemed poised to go wrong. (Better for the show, I thought.) I assumed that, to benefit my story arc, I'd be forced live life in ways I'd previously avoided, taking emotional risks for the good of the show I'd have been unlikely to take without it.

Of course, this meant that, before August, I would have to fall in love. Imagine my frustration as May became June which gave birth to July with no love interest in sight.


Because no one would love me, I had an inferior show.


Now, damn the luck, there are events transpiring that, while more than pleasant, would have better served my comedy if they'd happened earlier in the year.

And for Christmas-related reasons, I'm not doing the Anthology show tomorrow, which means I don't have anywhere to talk to strangers about it.