The Cheeseball Stands Alone

Twice today I cracked myself up while everyone around me remained stony-faced. First, after agreeing to review “99 Homes,” I bellowed “AND A BITCH AIN’T ONE. ” (Crickets.) Then, while discussing a financial issue, I bellowed, “MO MONEY, MO PROBLEMS.” (More crickets.) Perhaps the latter statement seemed too pathetically fantastical to be funny, given that I am notoriously un-moneyed. Perhaps a blond middle-aged lady barking rap lyrics was simply too problematic to be funny in any context. Either way, it is a good thing I am very confident that I am an absolutely highlarious human being or else I’d be developing a complex right about now.

I’m kind of joking (again) but it’s true that even when people don’t find me funny–which, quixotically, happens all the time— I tend to amuse myself. This may be an essential quality if you’re going to live alone, an argument for why ladies like me are best left to our own devices, or a genuinely radical act. I’m wondering if it’s all three. After all, given that most women are taught to titter at guys’ witticisms rather than attempt any of their own–given that most women are trained not to take up space, period–it’s an enormous transgression to say, “Fuck it, man. I’m just going to bust out these jokes regardless of whether you laugh.” And on that note, if none else, I am serious as a heart attack.

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy