Every time I sit down to try and write I lose all inspiration and imagination. I don’t feel funny when I’m alone because no one is here to justify my stupidity. They say humor comes from intelligence and truth, I’m not sure I have either. 

My work ethic is piss poor; but, not because I don’t want to write I just don’t know what to write. My truth is of no interest to me because it’s my everyday. What is it about comedy that makes people laugh, and especially when it’s something the viewer is only recreating in their voice. Online entries of humor are skewed from person to person, so, how does one find a clear, concise voice on “internet paper.”

This thing of comedy is nothing more than a formula, but it irritates me because it’s a consistently changing formula with no clear concise checked and balanced answer. I feel like I’m always so quick to grasp it but I’m even quicker to lose it.

What if I had chosen a different path? A straighter path? What if I had studied Math in college and became some number-pushing-bourgeois-lady tycoon who goes out for lunch everyday, drinks champagne during her work hours, and gets fondled by gross bidness men in bathrooms in order to get that promotion she so desperately needs so she can afford her dream vacation of going to Vermont in the winter. And then she comes home later in her day to run on a treadmill her faced doused in tears because her life is as empty as the wine bottle she just downed. 

Life is a weird thing, with so many different paths. Are any of them right or enjoyable? Do humans ever truly feel fulfilled? Or is that in it self a figment of an imagination?

So dumb.

I’m currently at the dentist, and there is a father and two children in the waiting room with me. One is an infant boy the other is a five year old girl. The infant is running around with a sudoko book in his mouth, and the girl is autistic with a ton of cavities. I’ve learned all this information from sitting here, and listening. This boy has literally mouthed everything he can fit in his little baby mouth. Keys, diaper wipe holder, a trifold sign, his sisters hand, ect. The dad’s a very tall, and his wife has been calling him incessantly asking questions. He had to go to the back and check his daughters cavities, and he didn’t pick up the fifth call from his wife. He returns back to the waiting room, and his wife asks him accusingly, “why didn’t you pick up?” His response, “because your daughters mouth is riddled with cavities, and I was in the back looking at her rotting mouth.” She returned with a saddened, “oh…”

Last weekend I left everything that made me feel safe. I moved to a city where everyone I know is steps ahead of me. I spend more time thinking, more time listening… less time speaking. I plan on living as me, and acting as me, reaping the consequences, regretting the benefits and vice versa.