IRL, I seem to make people laugh. I am not funny in writing.
There are a few people who allow me to talk without setting a stake and coming at me with rope while sending their kids to find the lighter fluid.
There are those who think because I’m always cracking jokes, I’m stupid.
Because getting the joke is less intelligent than not getting it?
No one likes a serious point with a sardonic delivery.
Only heretics use humor to blunt a sharp truth?
I get it from my family. Both my dad’s words were funny. Three generations of women before me on my mom’s side love a laugh. They were
nasty earthy. Fortunately, all these funny people forced me to finish my degree.
So I can use my college diploma to raise the laptop up so it doesn’t get too hot.
I am about to make an actual point, though.
I can’t write it.
What’s funny is in the moment.
I guess, my brand new obsession with travel is funny. Every place I see on TV, I wanna go. London? China? New York? Boston? Abso-freaking-lutely. Why the heck not? Dallas? BBC is coming up too soon. I’d have to sell a vital organ. This is entirely new. I’ve never wanted to leave the house.
Some drug related fun. Whether it’s a side effect or because my well-rested self is a bit of a “Glass-has-exactly-6.3 oz.-in-it” kind of gal with a predictably low threshold for b.s? Either way, I have been telling people exactly how the cow-ate-the-cabbage. The eye doctor’s office had been backloading today’s smooth as silk: “Don’t play ‘pretend-to-care’ with me” guest lecture for 22 months. Last week, it was the guy with the heavily accented English at AT&T. Nathan. Sorry, Nate.
My fingernails have started to grow like crazy, and they’re strong. I can use ’em like screwdrivers. I asked the Pharmacist about it. It’s not a side effect of the medications. We are guessing it is a side effect of being rested and the body having something left over at the end of the day.
As with any random post, there has to be a comment on the blog… I’ve decided, I’m blog learning challenged. In October, I will be three years in. There are so many things you’re supposed to do. I am just writing and linking to FB & Twitter. I’ve tried a little sponsored post stuff, and I’m horrible at it. I feel like that one girl in school who thought she could sing but couldn’t, and everyone knew but there was just no way to tell her without being mean. There are 9 people who read everyday(2 being bloggers and the other 7 the boy’s friends from China) and my average site visits is 15.
I’m writing at Panera. The lady behind me has revealed extremely personal information in an “I’m-trying-to-tune-you-out-but-you-have-to-work-with-me” volume. There is another gal whose mom has inoperable cancer and she had to meet with her last night to get find out her mother’s preferences for what should be done with her remains. I can’t even imagine.
Maybe we are here for a purpose. At Panera, so I can pray for these strangers whose lives are in desperate times. On earth, so we can weave in and out of one another’s lives. A mystery written that we get the rest of all eternity to read in front of the fireplace in our mansion.
The lady behind me is talking about her skin flaking. I think I’m gonna take off now, I’ve had all I can take.