My finger is wrapped in bacon band-aids and I’m dejectedly watching She-Ra with my roommate over margaritas mid-day.

I’m feeling fairly beat down and watching the scene where the pink swan gets shot is sure-fire laughs.

“Sword to shield!”  She-Ra cries on the DVD.

My roommate – ever positive – encourages, “Good one!” as She-Ra delivers a roundhouse kick.

A week ago today, things were a little better.

I had just gotten back from a camping trip, where I made some new friends, one of which was a lovely comedian by the name of Satan.  We had a great couple chats where I learned that Satan is in fact one of co-producers of an “alternative room.”

I knew it.

Anyway, She-Ra was a great role model.  She may be responsible for a large portion of the childhood beatings my siblings received, just as He-Man was responsible for my brother repeatedly ramming his head into the brick fireplace at top speed.

She gave me many suggestions for how to cope life’s issues.  However, I don’t remember the episode where she was going to watch another friend’s show and went to the wrong venue then when she came outside found her car being towed by the police to the tune of $1,100 – yeah, $1,100 in parking tickets.  I don’t know where I parked either to rack up that fine – apparently, on the mayor.

I had to borrow money from everyone – which came complete with the “You need to look at what you are doing with your life” speech from mom* followed by an awkward “Now, why don’t you want to be a bikini bartender or an exotic maid**?” discussion with dad.

* This coming from the woman that bought me the She-Ra box set for Christmas just last year.

** Sit-ups.

The only speech-free loans came from fellow working comics.

I finally got the car back 5 days later after bumming rides to emergency court “tow hearings” and then to the impound where a couple miles away the bumper just falls right the fuck off the car, blocking a carwash entrance and really pissing off a flock of Los Angelinos – the only impatient idiots that want to wash their cars NOW when it’s raining.

I finally got the bumper precariously back on but now I’m afraid to drive it especially after the police were kind enough to write “HPV” on the back of it after breaking it.  I don’t know what HPV means to LAPD but I know what it means to the rest of us and frankly, the car and owner have been humiliated enough this week.

It reminds me of an awful joke I retired 5 years ago about cars catching viruses and STDs, which I found on a 2003 CD that I’m too embarrassed to listen to – but not too ashamed to sell to you.   It’s the track entitled, “I can’t believe I wrote, performed and especially distributed this joke.”

You’ll know the one.  Buy now.

Then I found an ENORMOUS roach in the kitchen, which has never happened before. He must have stumbled into the apartment by luck – as I myself have done on multiple occasions.

Then I cut myself pretty good.

Hence, throwing my bloodied hands up and looking to Margaritas and She-Ra for messages of hope and inspiration.

So far, the message seems to be that a short skirt, glitter and a weapon equates a happy ending.

It’s times like these that I wish I had the Jem box set.  I think her advice, as a fellow entertainer, would be more practical.