I have no idea what to write about today, but I have about forty minutes with which to come up with something. Maybe you should just come back later. I am not feeling that interesting today.
Well, that’s not ever true. I’m lying. I think I’m a riot. It’s just unfortunate that sometimes people don’t agree with me because I have no interest in making people think that I am polite. I have been a wallflower for most of my life… too shy to engage for fear of rejection… and then I got over it. I realized that I was living in a comfort zone thisbig, and I had to stop being afraid of confrontation. I am allowed to take up space in the world. I am allowed to disagree.
Once I gave myself that permission, I got a lot funnier… to me. And then when horrible things would come out of my mouth, I knew to just apologize if anyone was offended and MOVE THE FUCK ON. I didn’t have to shrink in my fear that no one would like me after X joke. X joke can be on any subject, especially since I spent a lot of my life up until now as a cook in a bar.
Nothing is off limits. Ever.
Humor lights me up, especially cringe humor so horrible that most people would vomit. I think that the world is so fucked up on its own that someone telling jokes *about* the horrible things that happen is one of the only things that saves me from freaking out over them. This time in my life has been filled with jokes about child abuse, because it is the marble in the pasta pot that keeps it from boiling over.
What’s the best thing about having sex with 27-year-olds? There’s 20 of them.
This joke works a lot better aurally, and I could give a thousand fucks if you don’t like it. It made me laugh.
Again, pasta pot. Boiling over. You don’t get that image, then maybe you’ll get this one. My childhood abuse (even though it wasn’t physical) stayed inside me until now, because I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone that they were right. Our relationship was inappropriate, but I lived for it. Couldn’t and wouldn’t walk away. For over 20 years, that abuse has been sitting over my head like a Mento over a Diet Coke. A couple of years ago, I couldn’t hold it in any longer, and the Mento dropped.
Anything I can do to make myself laugh is worth it, even if the humor is as black as tar.
Apparently, this phenomenon is not uncommon. The worse the experience, the harder it is for stupid jokes to make us laugh. You have to dig deep, and find a way to laugh at the pain already inside you so that you have a way to release it.
It’s time to give the journal back and I’m standing in front of her, asking her questions about what I’ve read. There’s clearly a menage a trois, and at 14, I don’t even know how that’s possible between a group of people at least 10 years older. I want to ask more, I’m so turned on I can’t stand it, but I’m confused. She said “it’s not like that,” and I don’t know how the hell it’s not. I have no idea what she wants me to know, or why she would give me this information if she wasn’t planning on using it.
I wanted her to use it…. desperately. Because the game wasn’t that she was going to hurt me. She just knew how to pull my strings so that I was so high on teenage hormones I could have lit a Christmas tree. I didn’t learn what sex physically meant until I was much older, but I assure you that I discovered blue balls early. It was confusing in a “do what I say, and not what I do” kind of way.
…Guy is walking through a deep gorge and sees a little girl crying. He says, “what’s wrong, sweetheart?” She says, “I just watched my parents’ car go over this cliff!” Guy pulls down his pants and says, “well, today’s just not your day, is it?”