There’s a particular kind of silence that falls over a comedy club when you bomb hard enough. It’s not the absence of laughter. It’s worse. It’s the sound of people recalibrating their life choices. You can hear someone wondering if the two-drink minimum was worth it. You can hear regret chewing through a mozzarella stick.

That was the sound I got.

Not after a joke—after my entire set.

I was halfway through a five-minute slot at The Rubber Chicken—an open mic night that smells like spilled beer and existential dread—when I made a joke about my ex-wife’s new boyfriend having the personality of unsalted rice. Mild chuckle. Encouraging. So I pushed further.

“I mean, at least rice has the decency to absorb flavor. That guy just repels it.”

And that’s when the silence fell. Thick. Immediate. Final.

A woman in the front row coughed. A guy in the back asked for the check. Someone dropped a fork and it echoed like a funeral bell.

I still had three minutes left.

Three minutes is an eternity when you’re dying onstage. It’s also the exact amount of time required to reconsider every life decision that brought you there.

I wrapped early.

“Anyway, that’s my time. And yours. And God’s.”

That got the biggest laugh of the night. Not because it was funny, but because it was over.

As I stepped off the stage, my foot caught on the mic cord and I stumbled. Saved it with a dramatic flail that, for a split second, looked intentional. It wasn’t. Nothing in my life was.



The greenroom was just a mop closet with a mirror and no self-respect. I stared into it and saw a man who peaked during a YouTube clip in 2008 titled “Heckler Destroys Comedian (But Not Really).”

Behind me, someone said, “Still doing divorce material?”

It was Blake. Twenty-five. TikTok-famous. His whole act was dressing like a squirrel and yelling investment advice. Sponsored by energy drinks and financial trauma.

“It’s not material if it’s still happening,” I said.

Blake nodded like that was tragic but useful. “You should do crypto jokes. Or trauma. Those hit now.”

“Thanks, squirrel guy.”

He went back to scrolling on his phone, probably booking a six-figure brand deal for pretending to cry in a hoodie.



I walked home.

“Walked” is generous. I trudged. My apartment was six blocks away, above a laundromat that doubled as a white-noise machine and a heating system. I used to call it “cozy.” That was before I realized cozy is just code for “you’ll die here.”

Inside, I peeled off my sweat-damp shirt and collapsed on the futon that tripled as my bed, couch, and shame nest.

I opened my laptop. No emails. No gigs. No scams, even. I checked my Venmo.

Negative six dollars.

How do you go negative on Venmo?



The next morning, my therapist called. Dr. Klein. Technically I owed her for three sessions, but she was still checking in, which felt like a red flag for both of us.

“You sounded… bleak last time,” she said gently.

“Bleak is the new baseline,” I told her.

“Have you considered pivoting your energy into something more tactile? More human?”

“If this is a segue into pottery, I swear to God—”

“I’m talking about connection. You isolate. You spiral. Maybe it’s time to engage with people in a different context.”

“Like… customer service?”

“Like touch.”

There was a silence. The kind where both parties feel the weight of what’s about to be said.

“You want me to touch people for a living?”

“Professionally. With boundaries. There are platforms—”

“I’m not starting an OnlyFans, Dr. Klein.”

“There’s also something called SnuggleBuddy.”

I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my phone. “You made that up.”

“It’s real. Platonic cuddling. Human connection. For pay.”



That night, I Googled SnuggleBuddy.

It was real.

A website that looked like it was made in 2006 by someone with boundary issues. Stock photos of middle-aged men spooning on pastel couches. A tagline that read: “Safe, Platonic Comfort—One Hug at a Time.”

I should’ve closed the tab.

Instead, I clicked Apply.

It asked for a photo, a bio, availability, and a list of “comfort zones.” I uploaded a picture from a wedding I didn’t enjoy, wrote a bio that barely concealed my contempt for the premise, and clicked “Submit” purely for the bit.

I figured no one would hire me. I was wrong.

The next morning:

“Welcome to SnuggleBuddy! Your profile is live.”

My first client booked within an hour.

Todd. 38. Recently divorced. Banker. His message read:

“Hey man. Just going through a breakup. Need to chill. You seem real.”

That should’ve been the first red flag.

“You seem real” is something people say right before they overshare or stab you.



I arrived at his condo at 2:00 p.m. wearing jeans and the cleanest hoodie I owned. I brought mints. I didn’t know the cuddle protocol, so I just winged it.

He opened the door, looked like a sad Labrador in a Patagonia vest, and said, “You want tea or something?”

“Let’s cut to the chase,” I said. “You booked me to hold you like a large emotional pillow. Let’s do this.”

We sat on the couch, awkward as hell. He turned on jazz. We lay down, him facing outward, me behind him like some emotionally damaged backpack.

“This is weird, right?” he asked.

“It was weird two clicks ago.”

Then he started crying.

Not sniffling—full chest-heaving sobs.

I panicked. So I did what I do best.

I started monologuing.

I told him about my divorce. About bombing onstage. About the time I cried in a Rite Aid because a child hugged his dad and said, “You’re the best one.”

I kept talking.

And Todd?

He cried harder. Then he started laughing. Through the tears.

“This is amazing,” he said. “You’re like… a sad therapist who spoons.”

He paid me.

He tipped me.



That night, I got a review.

“Five stars. Realest session I’ve ever had. He doesn’t fake it. Changed my whole day.”

I stared at the screen.

Then I got another booking.

Then another.

I closed my laptop, lay in bed, and stared at the ceiling.

I had become emotionally useful by accident.

Which, as it turns out, is worse than being completely useless.