The past couple years, I've done a lot of work on myself, and I've realized that I'll be fine as long as I get constant attention. I do. I love attention. I always wanted attention.

When I was a little kid, I didn't get enough attention. I was the third of four kids. I have an older brother and an older sister. When I was three years old, they pulled me aside, and they told me that I was adopted… and that my real mother had been murdered… by Miss America.

They said, "If you ask our mom about it, she'll get really upset, so don't ask her if it's true, unless you want to upset her." And they said, "If you ask our dad about it, he'll say that we're lying… but he's lying."

They thought of every angle. And to compound the stress that I was under, when I was three years old, I thought that Miss America was the Statue of Liberty.

And that summer was 1986. And '86 that summer, on the 4th of July—Reagan was president then—and he gave a speech in front of the Statue of Liberty. He was wearing a white shirt, and the wind was blowing. And he goes, "This lady is a great lady." And I was sitting at home like, "Oh, my God. This goes all the way to the top. I'm never gonna get justice for my mother."

I always wanted attention in school, like to a sick degree. I really— I mean, I don't know if you guys ever had this feeling, but do you remember when you were in, uh, elementary school—grammar school—and a kid in your class would come to school one day, and you'd find out their grandparent had died, and they would get, like, so much attention?

You know, the teacher would be like, "Aaron's grandpa passed away," and he'd be like, "That's right," and we'd be like, "Oh, Aaron…" you know? And he'd be like VIP for the day.

He'd be like, "Can I sit in the bean bag chair during reading time like?" You're like, "Of course, you poor fuck. You sick thing. Forget the fact that there's a laminated construction paper list of whose day it is to sit in the bean bag chair, and we've all been patient, waiting for our day, and let's even forget that the bean bag is there to teach us patience. You just jump the line."

Did you ever look at how much attention that dead grandparent kid was getting? And did you ever… like me… hope… or maybe even… pray… "Please kill one of my grandparents, so I can get attention too!"?

I did. I did do that. And some of you did too. And I know you did, 'cause you started laughing from the very beginning of the joke.

If you did, don't feel too bad, okay? Yes, it's a super dark memory, but you were a little kid. Also, you were a little kid, so you probably still had, like, four grandparents. This is a lot of grandparents. Is this too many? I'm—I'm— I don't know. I'm asking.

Look, God damn it, I'm not saying you pray to kill one of the important ones. You don't want to kill your mom's mom. Too special of a relationship. And you don't want to kill your dad's dad, 'cause then your dad gets all weird. Kids, you think your dad's weird now? Wait for his dad to die. Then he goes on a whole quest. He'll want to take more family pictures but be angrier during them. Talk about, "Can we get one photo where we all look nice?!" and you're like, "I don't think this motherfucker's doin' that well."

So you don't want to kill one of the important ones… but you could kill… one of the unimportant ones. You know who.
You… You could kill your dad's mom. Who even knew your dad had a mom? It doesn't seem like she did a very good job. Ask your mom if she thinks that your dad's mom did a good job and deserves to live. Of course not. She is an unpleasant older lady. She's never done nothin' for no one. But she could now. She could die between September and May.

Real talk, Boston—when I was in elementary school, my grandma died over the summer! It was useless. You can't be walkin' into school on Labor Day, talkin' about, "We lost our grandma July 17th." "You should be over it by now. Get out of the bean bag chair!"

Well, I apologize for beginning to show on such a dark note, but I didn't want to start way too upbeat, you know? I've had a weird couple years. You've had a weird couple of years. I didn't want to come out all phony, you know?

Be like, (sing-song) *scats* Hey, Boston, it's time to laugh / Raise up your smiles, lower those masks / You know what I mean, we all quarantined / We all went to rehab, and we all got divorced / And now our reputation is different / No one knows what to think, hey, yeah / All the kids like Bo Burnham more because he's currently less problematic / Likability is a jail, ah (normal) So we can't start that way.

All right, thanks. I wrote that song.