I Don’t Feel Funny Today

I’m a funny girl.

My very existence, my description to strangers, even the stupid “brand” I’ve given myself is basically and totally comprised of witty comebacks, banter, and sarcastic remarks. I make jokes that can either cause a spit take because of it’s hilarity or it’s off color tendency — depending on the audience. I make fun of you, of my parents, of myself. Anyone’s expense is up for grabs. I’m like Barbara; I’m a funny girl.

The thing about being funny and identifying as such is you don’t really get a whole lot of allotted wiggle room to be much else. I don’t mean this in the sense that funny is your only label. I mean this in that being funny, being comical doesn’t allow you a whole lot of area to go outside of that happy-go-lucky world. It’s a little box where you’re allowed to be funny and if you step outside of it the world goes nuts.

It’s like the rule of three: you can be two but not all three at once. You can be pretty and funny, you can be smart and funny, but you can’t be depressed and pretty and funny. So you pick two and you roll on, using those identifiers as who you’re supposed to be. But guess what?

Funny got left behind.

Poor me, right? Poor girl has to pick two and leave the other.

The tricky thing with being a funny girl are the days and the weeks in which you don’t feel funny. They’re the days and the weeks where you’re staying awake until the lights in even the high rises go out and the seagulls go from complete silence to announcing the fact that sun is about to come back up. The nights where you watch five different movies trying everything from making yourself laugh to making yourself cry. You’re manic, riding every high and feeling every low. Those days and weeks try your very existence, make you question exactly who you are.

I know I should just force being funny and a part of me wants to do just that. I really want to laugh at myself for feeling stupid and boring and sad. But at the same time I don’t think I can, as dramatic as that is, and more realistically I know I don’t want to. What I want is to curl up and watch sad scenes in movies and listen to Ingrid Michaelson songs on repeat. I want to sleep and hopefully when I wake up I will feel like myself again. Maybe I’ll feel like laughing again.

People see me on social media and they tell me to clean it up. They jokingly send that really patronizing card from Urban Outfitters that says “You’ve been posting a lot of song lyrics and we’re worried about you” but you know that they’re only 20% joking and they’re really very serious. But I’ve stopped caring enough to change my bra during the week and even though I want to make a joke about it because the comedy of the situation is staring me dead in the face but I just can’t bring myself to get there.

I have article ideas, listicle ideas, blog ideas just staring up at me from the oh-so-convenient Notes App on my phone but the mere thought of trying to write them and make a joke sounds horribly exhausting. Formulating a sentence to entertain and not complain just seems pretty much impossible.

But I’m a funny girl. I’m a girl who likes clever comebacks and puns and an A+ gif usage. And that girl should pick herself up by her bootstraps and make the dick joke, be self-deprecating, be the funny girl that everyone, including herself, expects her to be.

But I don’t want to. Right now I want to let those ideas sit and fester and eventually when they yell loud enough and I’m not re-watching The Fault in Our Stars for the millionth time with red wine stained teeth I will execute them to the best of my hilarious ability. I want to wait out the days and the weeks and hope that there is a light at the end of the tunnel because I’m out of wise cracks and all I have at the moment is a really beat up, half used toilet paper roll scattered around my nightstand because I’m too cheap to buy Kleenex and a tiny, tiny bit of hope.

What I’m trying to say is: I don’t feel very funny today. I don’t feel like poking jokes at my stretch marks or my meaningless one night stands. I don’t feel like comparing Disney princesses to my friends and don’t want to be clever about stereotypical boys. I feel like the personification of the feeling people describe when watching paint dry. And it kind of sucks.

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