As the title suggests, I shall be chatting today about why exactly I’m just not funny. Actually, it won’t be why, but rather, how depressing it is. Really, it is very disheartening to know that people are just counting down the seconds until you are out of their sight. It’s depressing to know that my friends probably don’t really know what I look like, too busy are they scanning the horizon for some newer, more interesting person. I think that in essence it is nothing more than a genetic failing, but it certainly feels like a personal failing. Actually, to add insult to injury it seems that it is in fact both- basically, you’re screwed no matter what. I can’t tell you how amazing it would be to be the sort of person people flock to, the sort of person who has people hanging on their every word. Yet, I know that this can never be. My tongue will never spin wondrous tales nor say something witty and relevant; it is far more likely to stumble around and trip over itself like the floppy wet apparatus it is.
Maybe though, this is all just something in the mind. Maybe this lack of self esteem can be remedied by being confident, by striking out with the knowledge that I am loved. Yet I am crippled by cowardice, which cripples my humor, and in turn leads me to be waved aside like so many fumbling conversationalists. Humor, it seems, shall never be a part of me, however much I yearn for it to be so.
