A few days ago I stopped taking antihistamines in an effort to stop feeling so tired. Well, the good news is I think it worked. I no longer feel like one of those droopy-eyed dogs. The bad news, however, is that my allergies are still acting up, mostly in terms of watery eyes, itchy ears, and drainage. (If it’s not one thing, it’s another.) Well, since hope springs eternal, yesterday afternoon I went to a natural health food store, a different one that I usually go to. After I told the guy behind the counter what was up, he went on about homeopathics, aromatherapy, and herbs. Finally, he recommended an herbal product, so I’m giving that a whirl. (I’ll let you know how it goes.) But here’s what gets me. As I was checking out, the guy said, “A lot of people are having allergy problems lately.” I said, “Oh yeah?” Then he sniffed his nose and said, “Yeah, I certainly have been.”

Well, shit. If this guy’s got all these magic allergy potions, shouldn’t one of them be able to fix his nose full of snot? This close to returning the product, I walked out of the store feeling like I’d just be sold “a really wonderful condom” by a pregnant woman. Like, it didn’t work for me, but maybe it’ll work for you. Oh, and by the way, that’ll be thirty dollars.

Yesterday evening I got sucked into Amazon Prime’s new series, The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. My friend Marla recommended it, and it’s about a “perfect” Jewish girl in the 1950s who gets into standup comedy after her husband admits to having an affair with his secretary. Oh my gosh, y’all, everything about it is magical–the characters, the costumes, the writing. It’s so witty, or–to borrow a word a friend introduced me to recently–salty. (Life’s better with a little salt.) Anyway, I watched four episodes back to back last night, and as much as I love you, I honestly can’t wait to finish this blog and get back to the show.

It’s that good.

Currently it’s two in the afternoon, and I’m at the library. I had a chiropractor appointment this morning, then met my parents for lunch (like, honest-to-god lunch at noon), since they’d been to the doctor’s also. Now I’m killing time writing the blog, waiting for tonight’s improv class. Truth be told, I’m not looking forward to it. Since tonight is the last class of the year, we’ll be performing for an audience. The flyer for the event calls us The Mediocre Jokers, which–I hate to say–is accurate. I mean, we have our moments. But except for me, it’s a bunch of hormone-filled high schoolers, and they’re really a different species altogether, I’ve come to believe. Anyway, I’m thinking of showing up to the show drunk, which is what Mrs. Maisel did the first time she got on stage. Of course, she also flashed the audience, and whereas my bare chest isn’t anything to be ashamed of, a high school probably isn’t the ideal place to show it off. So all things considered, I guess I’ll stay sober.

Good plan, Marcus. Good plan.

Last night was the Geminid Meteor Shower. It’s tonight too, I believe. I just did some Googling, and apparently meteoroids are pieces or rock or debris that break off from a comet and wander about the universe. Well, when earth passes through these floating rocks as it circles the sun, that’s when we see shooting stars or meteors, since meteors are simply meteoroids that burn up as they enter earth’s atmosphere. (I knew it wasn’t easy to live here.) Anyway, last night I went outside in a heavy blanket, turned my head toward the sky, and waited. In just a couple minutes, I saw three shooting stars back to back. Before I called it quits and went inside, I’d seen close to twenty. Talk about magical. More than once, I actually squealed out loud.

While looking for shooting stars, I mostly faced the south, since that’s what the television told me to do. Still, I saw shooting stars in the east and west, so I realized that for every shooting star I saw, there were plenty more just over my shoulder. This made me think about the fact that there were dozens of shooting stars that continued to fall after I went inside, hundreds of beautiful little moments that went quietly into the night as I lay sleeping, unaware.

So often I worry about the future, what my health, what my career will look like. I think about whether or not I’m doing everything just so, just as I think about who reads these words and wonder if anyone really sees me. But it seems as if a meteor is different than I am. Unafraid to stumble about the universe, it is by definition willing to burn itself up in an effort to get from one world to another. And who cares if it succeeds? Failure is just a lovely. What’s more, a meteor doesn’t require an audience to shine. In this sense, perhaps we could all be more like the meteor, this thing we call beautiful, this brief streak of light.