Send in the Clown
You laugh and smile. You always do.
I was born to do this. After all, I have a Master of Arts in improvisation and a PhD in funny voices.
Your laughter is the fuel to my engine; it’s what keeps me running, if only for a short time. I know you love my comedies, but the drama’s where my true heart lies. Couldn’t you tell?
Happy and sad — such a thin line between those two. I’m a walking contradiction.
Why can’t someone put on a red rubber nose and make me smile for a change?
It’s the jokes that fooled you. They must’ve distracted you from looking deeper, from looking more closely and realize my own smile wasn’t always genuine. But who wants to see a sad clown?
I owed it to all of you wonderful people.
Parkinson’s disease, the young doctor told me. I thought it was a bad joke (ah, see what I did there?). If you take away my ability to crack jokes, what’s left of me? I can’t wait for this to happen.
My hands are trembling. I’m afraid what the next day will bring. I wanna go out while I’m still me.
The sun is setting as I sit on my bed, alone. It’s time. I haven’t planned how to do it. I’m the spontaneous type, I’ll improvise, after all it’s something I’ve always been good at.
I open the drawer where I keep my belts, coiled like snakes. This is going to be the last choice I’ll ever make. I grab the maroon-colored one, there’ll be enough black at my funeral.
A belt never felt so heavy.
I’ll count to ten. Nah, no need to extent the inevitable.
I’m sorry, baby. Remember I love you and the kids.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead. Funny, the stains under my armpits shouldn’t bother me, but they do.
Final curtain call.
I close my eyes.
Who’s laughing now?
