Being funny is so relative. There are just as many ways to be funny as there are to grieve; the possibilities are infinite. I can only talk about my life, and what being funny means to me.
When I was a little girl, I found that humor was my first reaction toward anything negative. The first time I remember this happening, I had gone with my parents to the movies in Daingerfield, Texas. In our group alone, there was a row of adults and a row of kids/teens. My dad came back from the concession stand and was trying to get into his place on “adult row.” In the process, he dropped an entire tub of movie popcorn with butter on my head. Without missing a beat, I turned around and grabbed all the popcorn that had fallen down my back and stuck it in my mouth. Everyone dissolved into laughter, and no one made fun of me.
Not too long after that, humor became my go-to mantra because I didn’t like the feeling of being threatened and feeling like I was going to cry all the time. See, I came out as gay when I was barely 14 years old, and I have always been extremely shy unless I’m playing the clown. I don’t want you to see the ways you’ve torn me down. I want to save that shit for home and I want you to see that you can’t fuck with me. Ever. Because you try, and all I’ll do is laugh. Keep going down the path of fuckupedness, and I will laugh twice as hard. I don’t want you to see me flinch, and I will do everything in my power to make that happen.
In those moments, I am incredibly funny, because I am going straight for the jugular laugh that makes you forget you were trying to make fun of me in the first place. Sometimes it works, and sometimes the people around you don’t share your sense of humor and instead of seeing your defense mechanisms, they see your inanity. They don’t know why they don’t want to get close, but they don’t. They don’t trust you. Something about you is fake.
OF COURSE IT IS! YOU’RE TRYING TO BE FUNNY!
I find that the moments in which I’m funny are often a cover-up for real emotion, and I haven’t figured out the balance in public for which Leslie they need me to be. How do I know that I can turn off the funny and trust that you will listen to me? This isn’t funny. It’s got real emotions in it. Are you going to run away because this story doesn’t have a punch line? The problem with being the joker is that sometimes people forget that you need them. To look six feet tall and bulletproof in the public eye is to give off signs that say “Do Not Feed.”
And they won’t.
So you turn inward, because you make yourself laugh. You make yourself think. And then you realize that you can only be so introspective before you decide you don’t like you anymore. Trust me on this one.
IT. WILL. HAPPEN.
The only thing you can do is keep vigil. When you make a horrendous joke that you thought would land, analyze why it didn’t work. Was it the timing or the subject matter? Did you say something inappropriate?
Because you’re going to keep needing to be funny, you just have to control it instead of letting it control you. Like I said earlier, I haven’t found that balance. But I’m watching me, just like you’re watching you.
Let’s compare notes. I’m pretty sure that I’m The Velveteen Asshole, instead of a real one. I can try and emote, but I’d rather not. I care more about what’s happening to you than I do about me because if I care that much about you, I don’t have to worry about me. I can just be funny.
See, it’s hilarious.
Stories That Are All True 