Folklore says if you’re lucky, you’ll catch a glimpse of her, going back and forth through the Palm Springs Ace Hotel pool—the lone swimmer—on an endless mission to boldly proclaim her self-determination, her independence, her way. Her forever drive toward feeling okay with who she is. They say if you see her, it’s an omen.
At least I’ve got that going for me.
ALL THE INCREDIBLE THINGS
I DID NOT DO
When you tell people you are going somewhere, whether it’s a far-off destination, a weekend away in nature, or a restaurant downtown, you will most likely be inundated with the things you must do, have to see, cannot miss. Real life is like a constant Yelp review, everyone has notes on how the experience could be improved. As I planned my road trip I contemplated the best route to take; should I go north and see the Badlands and the big sky in Montana? Drive the famous Route 66 across the Midwest? Or should I go south and hit up the Southwest and possibly the Grand Canyon? All ways seemed incredible, but when I shared my dilemma with others, every single person had an opinion, to a point where they all canceled each other out. I felt pressure, as if the drive would be a complete waste of time if I didn’t cross all those things off my list and report back about my findings.
It was too much. Who was I going on this trip for? I just wanted to be, without the stress of a to-do list. So, I threw it out. I didn’t do most of the things I was supposed to. I didn’t dine at any of the places people raved about; I didn’t eat BBQ in Nashville, or anywhere for that matter. I didn’t go to Graceland like I thought I would. I didn’t go to B.B. King’s infamous club on the main drag in Memphis and hear blues, or see the fireworks display on the roof of the fancy hotel in the center of town. I didn’t see the bats fly out from under the bridge as night fell in Austin, or do laps in Barton Springs. I didn’t buy peaches on the side of the road on my way to far-West Texas, or stop in any of the antiques stores lining Route 10 through Fredericksburg. I didn’t go to the Judd or the Chinati Foundations, or see hardly any of the art in the far-flung reaches of the desert. I didn’t go to Big Bend or stop at the Carlsbad bat caves. I didn’t visit Georgia O’Keeffe’s house in Abiquiu like I planned. I didn’t see Bears Ears or go canyoneering in Zion. I didn’t do any drugs or fuck any strangers. I didn’t go to any concerts or secret back-bar hotspots, and the only dance parties I attended were the solo ones inside my hotel rooms and driver’s seat.
Maybe that means I missed out on the most coveted places these cities and destinations have to offer, but I found my own way. I found what I needed. I went to bad bars and biked around town. I drove in circles and got pissed about parking and ate at Whole Foods in Nashville. I bought fried green tomatoes from a greasy pub, got soaked in the rain, and watched The West Wing in my hotel room in Memphis. I got tacos from a truck in Marfa, read on a foldout chair in the parking lot, and spent time with people I knew in my gut would become important to me. I wandered. It was a mess and not perfect and all mine. I got lost, and that’s okay.
It’s okay to not see all the art and not meet all the locals and not walk all the famous walks or hear all the indie bands in the coolest venues in town. It’s okay to go to sleep early and spend too long finding the good coffee spot but not seeing the historical sights. It’s okay. It’s okay to not figure it all out. It’s okay to feel broken and alone and scared sometimes. It’s okay to not know everything. It’s okay to not eat where everyone tells you to, or not take a selfie in front of everything you’ve seen or done and post on the internet for friends and strangers to see. It’s okay to go away and come back. It’s okay. It’s okay if it’s not all amazing or incredible or spectacular. It’s okay. It’s okay to leave earlier than you expected, to drink too much or not drink at all. It’s okay to replay stupid moments you regret in your mind and it’s okay to not have moved on completely. It’s okay to be fucking pissed. Everyone is on their own timeline when it comes to love, so it’s okay. It’s okay to think it’s not okay. It’s okay to go off the grid and not be in touch. It’s okay to take a second and to breathe and to cry. It’s okay to be tender. It’s okay to fail. It’s okay to change, to grow, to be confused. It’s okay to fight for something and to want to give up. It’s okay to want someone. It’s okay to need someone. It’s okay to learn and to get better and to know you’re still not quite there yet. It’s okay to suck at drawing hands. It’s okay to be nervous and excited at the same time, to be unsure of what’s ahead. It’s okay to just go and try and to feel whatever you have to feel and to follow your gut. It’s okay, because that’s all you really have.
This went exactly how it needed to. I guess it usually does. Love revealed how covered up I was, but heartache broke me open.
I made it to Los Angeles, and it is going to be okay.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to Suzanne O’Neill, my editor, who has been in the passenger seat with me throughout this entire experience. Your diligent and thoughtful feedback has made this book what it is. I’m sorry there were so many lists and maps and diagrams involved.
Thank you to my family. To my mom and dad, always, for their love, creativity, and enthusiasm. Thank you to Barry and Barb, to Brian and Molly, Stella and Mae.
Thank you to Ilana Glazer for her friendship and her ear and her heart. Thank you to Sam Irby for her encouragement to write and finish this book, and her incredible pep talks I wish I recorded. Thank you to my friends for their support and feedback, especially Jen Statsky, Marja-Lewis Ryan, Marcel Dagenais, Brooke Posch, Will Graham, Lucy Cobbs, Nicole Shabtai, Lucia Aniello, Megan Neuringer, Phoebe Robinson, Jessi Klein, Beth Cooke, Natasha Lyonne, and Kelly Evans.
Thank you to Liz Lambert, Erin Lee Smith, Bobby Johns, Steve Shuck, and Angel Olsen for hosting me somewhere along the way. Thank you to Todd Bieber for chasing an old letter with me. Thank you to Paul W. Downs for coming up with this book’s title in five minutes after I brainstormed for months. For their love and friendship, thank you to Jaimé Bandres, Jessica Bevers, Amy Poehler, David Rooklin, D’Arcy Carden, Jason Carden, Paul Welsh, Travis Helwig, Meryl Rowin, Chioke Nassor, Scott Desjadon, Jen Vigdor, Samantha Block, Mary Black, and Dave Chaitt.
Thank you to Andrew Brischler for drawing the most beautiful, perfect cover. To Emmanuel Olunkwa for taking my picture. Thank you to everyone involved with Broad City, especially Lilly Burns, Tony Hernandez, and Kelsie Kiley. Thank you to Comedy Central, especially Kent Alterman for giving me a platform with such creative freedom and always supporting my other endeavors.
Thank you to my agents, Susie Fox and John Sacks, for pushing me to go after projects that mean something to me. Thank you to my lovely lawyers Michael Auerbach and Karl Austen. Thank you to Hannah Powell, to Lindsay Krug and Rhett Usry, Thomas Carter Phillips, Frank Selvaggi, Nicholas Famularo, Gene Palmer and Jay Heller, Marc Gerald and Meredith Miller.
Thank you to everyone at Grand Central and Hachette for all their hard work and support: Caitlin Mulrooney-Lyski, Nidhi Pugalia, Amanda Pritzker, Andrew Duncan, Anjuli Johnson, Marie Mundaca, Lisa Forde, Karen Kosztolnyik, and Ben Sevier. And thank you to Sarah Savitt at Virago.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Abbi Jacobson is one of the series creators, executive producers, and stars of Comedy Central’s critically acclaimed hit show Broad City. She is the New York Times bestselling author of the illustrated book Carry This Book, and has also created two coloring books, Color This Book: New York City and Color This Book: San Francisco. She is the host of A Piece of Work, the Webby Award–winning podcast from the Museum of Modern Art and WNYC Studios.
ALSO BY ABBI JACOBSON
Carry This Book
Color This Book: New York City
Color This Book: San Francisco
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