I got food poisoning from the complimentary snacks in my Uber Black.
During a local Mensa meet up, I got a concussion doing an “Escape the Room.” We still finished in record time.
My large, non-shared bedroom is so quiet that I comfortably slept through my alarm. When I finally woke up, I bumped my head on my non-IKEA bed frame.
You wanna know how I got these scars? I got into a bar fight with a guy who mocked what I wore to The Kennedy Center Honors.
I was headlining at Gotham Comedy Club, and before the show, Kevin Hart, my opener, and I got into an arm-wrestling contest. Beating him really tensed up my swole biceps, so when I got onstage to tape my Netflix special, I dropped the microphone and it landed on my foot. The audience laughed so hard at my screech of pain that I did it again later as a call-back and got a standing ovation. I now have a sitcom on HBO called, Mic Foot.
I got a terrible hand cramp loading my dishwasher in my rent-stabilized New York City brownstone with pre-war interior, modern appliances — including a dishwasher — south-facing windows, and a quirky-yet-responsible landlord who has made appearances in both a Spike Lee joint and a Philip Roth novel. Did I mention that I have a dishwasher?
Tennis elbow. From tennis.
Forbes invited me to an event for their “27 Who Are Exactly 27” list. We were on our way to my favorite Taishanese nightclub underneath the Dutch-era docks of the secret-Meatpacking District, when I stubbed my toe on the $3000 high heel of my girlfriend, Cortada, a successful Instagram horse model/yacht model/swimsuit model from the ethnically-ambiguous, privately-owned waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea.
I passed out from dehydration doing a 20K charity triathlon — involving running, cross-country skiing, and filing the necessary paperwork to form a 501c3.
I was scaling Azerbaijan’s highest mountain with my family friend, Bartholomew I, the Ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinople (we call him Uncle Barth), when one of our sherpas tripped and almost fell down the mountain. I sprained my wrist catching the sherpa’s arm in midair while he dangled 10,000 feet over the ledge, a feat I could only do thanks to my $800/month Tough Mudder classes.
Chlamydia. From sex.
I got sun poisoning, twenty-seven horse-fly bites, and violently seasick after my wife proposed to me while sailing around the remote islands of Newfoundland on her grandfather’s vintage schooner. But because we held each other for hours while watching the sun slowly set and the stars grow into the sky, as if time before that moment had never existed, we didn’t even notice the ghastly smell.
My dog — which I bought from a breeder using income from my job that I got through an unpaid internship that I got from my mother’s business connections and financial support from a trust fund, which also paid for the college that I attended thanks to admissions leniency for legacy students, an expensive private SAT tutor, and the financial and racial privilege my parents needed to live in a college-preparatory suburban public high school district — bit me.
Jon Hamm, Rihanna, Princess Diana (she’s alive, but only to those who are Connected), and I were all at Ariana Grande and Pete Davidson’s prenuptial party when the Chosen Groom invoked the holy procession. Soon, everybody fell to their knees except Jeff Goldblum in a lavender tunic, who delivered the sacrificial goat. As The Holy Wraith commands of The Connected, we consumed its profane flesh. Soon after, like trumpets we released our righteous glory upon the immaculate lawns of Beverly Hills, a watercolor portrait of prelapsarian lust, a frolicking orgy of divine consummation. Our agony shook the foundations of the earthly realm and I got this crazy headache lol.
I got a bruise from a vaccine shot — required to attend college — at the doctor, paid for using health insurance.