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When I was in elementary school, I wrote plays and somehow convinced by teachers to let me stage them at the front of the classroom. I didn't hate the spotlight when I was 10. But then... middle school. I was chubby and awkward, with braces and no ability to use a hair straightener. In 7th grade, our music teacher staged a terrible rendition of Music Man, and on the day the chorus got to pick their costumes, I was out sick, so he stuck me in a giant, magenta prairie dress. I don't think he ever forgave me for breaking out into giggles and refusing his choreography for our summer camp version of Grease (there was nothing in town this teacher didn't direct). As I wasn't a teenage masochist, I graciously departed from the stage after that.

After I was diagnosed with
cancer at 27, I signed up for a few classes to try to feel like a person again. The first was Improv 101. I was, let's just say, not good. But I loved being in a class again and was on a terrible track of dating comedians (Los Angeles, amiright?), so I thought I'd try stand-up. I also wasn't great at that. What I was good at, however, was crafting one-liners within stories, which led me down the path of storytelling.

This is my very long way of telling you (see, stories!) that I love storytelling. I've been onstage at shows around L.A., as well as in Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Milwaukee, and gone up at The Moth and Risk!. But my storytelling baby was my show, Stupid Smart Kids, which ran for four years. I plan on
bringing it back post-pandemic (calling all my North Carolina storytellers!), but until then, please enjoy this delightful summary of one of my favorite shows I put on at Copper Still in L.A.

I also promise I tell shorter stories than this...


Listen to archived Stupid Smart Kids shows here:

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