Why I Quit Stand-Up Comedy

I used to do stand-up comedy. People often say, “Oh, that must have been fun!” And sometimes it was. But mostly? It was exhausting, weird, and full of red flags wearing ironic t-shirts.

Here’s why I quit:

1. I’m not a night person.
Stand-up comedy is a nocturnal sport. Shows start late, end later, and then you're expected to hang out even later at diners or bars, talking shop with other comics who think a fart joke is the height of wit. Meanwhile, I’m the person who likes to be in pajamas by dinnertime. And not the sexy kind of pajamas. The Costco kind. With matching socks. That is my vibe.

2. The sleaze factor.
A lot of the male comedians (and yes, a few of the women too) assumed I was there to hook up. I was not. I was there to tell jokes and maybe eat some nachos. There’s something wildly unfunny about trying to rewrite your setlist while dodging unsolicited shoulder massages from a guy named Brett who’s “technically still married.”

3. Drugs.
I’ve never been into drugs. I wouldn’t have even recognized half of them until I had jury duty last year and sat through a drug training presentation. That was the first time I saw cocaine, crack, heroin, and their charming accessories outside of a Law & Order episode. One night after a show, a fellow comic asked if I wanted to “go out to his car for some coke.” I smiled and said, “Thanks, but I’m more of a Diet Coke kind of girl.” He did not find that as funny as I did.

4. The payoff wasn’t worth it.
I don’t mean the emotional payoff. I mean actual cash. Unless you’re touring constantly or working cruise ships (which, no thank you, I hate water and I’m prone to seasickness and claustrophobic panic), the money is... bad. Like, “gas station burrito for dinner again” bad.

In the end, I realized that I love writing humor more than performing it. I’d rather make someone laugh while they’re drinking coffee in their kitchen than on a stage in a smoky bar at 11:45 p.m., waiting for my five-minute set after a guy who opened with a joke about his hemorrhoids.

So now I write. In my pajamas. Often with a Diet Coke. And honestly? That feels like the real punchline.