That’s cute. But not quite far enough. “Right. Or . . . I could be an Australian primatologist. And I could have a monkey on my shoulder.” I whipped out my Australian accent. “It’ll be SEW much fun, mate.”
The producer let me create my own character! That date was an amazing shitshow, as it was supposed to be. Although there was no money in the budget for a real monkey, so I had to make do by walking on my hands and feet in the restaurant and making ape noises. Hey, I could be my own monkey. It worked just fine.
In Disaster Date, I got to be very creative because so much of it was improvised. I played a yoga instructor on one date and twenty minutes in, I was in a headstand in the restaurant.
On another date, I played a life coach named Teresa and I gave the mark the worst life advice possible throughout the date. I told the producer to call me halfway through the date so that I could act like I was giving bad life advice to one of my clients.
The guy was trying to relate to me when he said, “My sister’s bothering me a little lately.”
I latched on to that. “You gotta cut her off. Just cut her off.”
“I mean, all she did was eat my leftovers—”
“You call her up and say—What’s her name?”
“Uh, Megan, but—”
I shushed his lips. “You say, Megan? It’s over. You are a toxic, toxic, person, who is ruining my life, and I don’t need you. I’m never talking to you again. Repeat that after me.” I looked deep into his eyes.
“She’s my sister, though.”
The mark started tapping his fingers on the table with discomfort. I had him right where I wanted. Then my phone rang. Perfect. I answered with such confidence. “Believe and You’ll Achieve It Incorporated, this is Laura.”
My eyes widened at what I said. Shit, I called myself Laura! I was supposed to be Teresa on this date. The mark looked at me, confusion in his eyes. If I fucked this up, the whole episode would be unusable.
I glanced at the mark and continued: “Laura is my middle name. You know I go by that sometimes. But yep this is Teresa Laura.” He didn’t figure it out. Whew.
I once played a pill popper. (Again, a lifetime of research, paying off! Thanks, addiction!) Throughout the date, I popped Xanax into my mouth over casual conversation. The mark grew more and more worried, bless his heart. After he suggested I slow down, I pulled out a bottle of Adderall and started taking those. Finally I said that I had to “be right back,” put on a literal helmet, and pretended to pass out on the dinner table.
He actually freaked out and poured water on me. Which was my cue to do the usual, “that’s a hidden camera and that’s a hidden camera and these are all actors and YOU’RE ON DISASTER DATE!” That guy asked me on a real date afterward—which was a bit odd, as I’m sure I didn’t make a great first impression.
I loved the risk of Disaster Date. I loved the fact that if I fucked up the hoax, the whole episode would be unusable. I loved the pressure resting on my shoulders. I understood that pressure—I thrived under that pressure. And here, I got to channel my longtime love of thrilling and shocking other people into something controlled and creative and positive. I mean, I wasn’t curing cancer or saving children, but this was still positive! (As positive as embarrassing innocent strangers on TV can be.)
I was never mean-spirited on the show. I have never found laughing at the expense of someone else funny, so when the producers would ask me to mock a date’s appearance, I would refuse. On this show, I was the idiot. Not them, ME. And I could finally add “making people uncomfortable” to the special skills part of my résumé, after horseback riding.
My dating life had always been disastrous, but now that I was working on Disaster Date? It . . . was still pretty bad. Sorry, guys. The show was an awful reflection of my real life, pursuing people that I was 100% wrong for.
I just didn’t know how to be alone. I was under the impression that I needed a man to take care of me. Even though I completely, entirely, did not. I was making enough money to afford my own place, and I had friends and a great social life. But I didn’t know how to be alone. I thought I needed structure from a relationship, whether it was Damon with his drugs and isolation, or Rudolf with yoga and dinner parties. When I was alone, what the fuck was I even supposed to be doing?
My solution to this crisis was to dig down into my psyche and reflect on where this pattern came from and how I could change it. JUST KIDDING! MY SOLUTION WAS TO FIND SOMEONE ELSE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
While out one night, I met an incredibly stoned ex-skateboarder named Brody. PERFECT! We were dancing to the loud club music, drinks in hand, and he said, “Hey, you should something something!” I couldn’t really hear him.
“WHAT? IT’S LOUD IN HERE,” I yelled back at him over the music.
“YOU SHOULD MOVE IN WITH ME.”
“OKAY! THANKS, CODY!”
“IT’S BRODY.”
“WHAT?”
Soon enough, I was out of Colleen’s place and into Cody/Brody’s. Ladies, this is the blueprint for what not to do in your twenties.
Brody was a perfectly nice guy, but he started to bring out my addict tendencies again. You might be wondering whatever happened to the AA meetings I started going to. I stopped. Now that I was a goddamn MTV star, I had everything under control! I did everything in moderation—a bit of weed, some cocaine, some mushrooms. It was all fine! This is possibly what people refer to as “denial.” Addiction doesn’t let you do moderation. But now that my career was taking off a bit, it was easier to deny the bad things in my life. I was going to try my hardest to have it all.
“Wanna do mushrooms?” Brody asked me one night, pulling a little baggie of dried beige turds out of his pocket.
“Do you just carry those around with you everywhere?”
Brody smiled. “Wallet, keys, phone, ’shrooms.”
Hmmm. I had a table read in the morning for Disaster Date. But highs generally only last a few hours, right? It would all fade by the morning. The worst that could happen is that I’d have some wild dreams that night. In the moment, I felt proud of myself for even considering the consequences of my decision for a few seconds. I’m so responsible.
“Hand them over, dude.”
We were up all night, hallucinating. The walls were melting and so was the floor and SO WAS MY FACE.
“Have you ever thought about, like, pineapples? Like, why are they . . . like that?” Brody said.
I covered my ears. “Don’t make my brain explode. I don’t want it to explode.”
The morning rolled around and I was still full-on tripping. I had thirty minutes until my table read, where all the producers, actors, and director would be present. I didn’t know what to do. You know who would give me good advice on this situation? One of my addict friends, Robin. I called her and told her the dilemma. “Do I go to my table read? I’m tripping balls.”
“Duuuuuuuuude, this is the age-old question: go to work high and risk your job or don’t go to work and risk your job!” I think Robin was also high.
“Dude, you’re stressing me out! What do I do? My walls are lava and my houseplants are walking around my apartment.” I glared at the potted palm that was currently laughing at me.