People have been telling me for years that I should write a book. Usually, right after I’ve finished regaling them with one of my most ridiculous, well-worn tales.

And yes, I have tried to write this down before. Several times. I’d get three, maybe four single-spaced pages in, feel the comedic momentum grinding to a halt, and think: Absolutely not. I refuse to die like this. And the aborted attempt would be saved in a file named “Memoirs,” which I would then avoid like a cursed tomb.

The laughter is the payoff.
The reaction is the drug.
That’s the thing I chase.

And let me tell you: Word documents do not give that kind of feedback. Google Docs does not laugh, wheeze, or collapse on the floor. A laptop has never turned red, snorted, or said, “Diana. DIANA. No. You did not.”

Nevertheless, here I am, trying again, typing away and imagining the future amusement of the handful of people who might eventually read this. (And if one of those people is my mother: I am not kidding—stop now.)

Maybe this will be an audiobook someday. Then I can deliver these stories the way God intended: with my actual voice.

Still, I’m not opposed to an actual printed book. Then I could include some of my photography and maybe some tasteful pop-up images. I’ll leave it to your imagination to figure out where those would have been placed.

I can’t promise an epic arc, heroism, inspiration, or even insight. But if one punchline actually lands and makes you snort, well, then all these hours typing will have been worth it.