A brief account from a jester with a fear of clowns.

Pursuing comedy professionally has to be one of the shittiest dreams to have. Of all the respected jobs in the world, my heart wants to stand in front of a crowd and tell jokes to a bunch of drunk, bored, nobodies who will likely turn to their date and slur, “this whole SHOW is a joke.”

The worst part has to be that humour can’t be taught. You can’t go to school for four years, learn the art of comedy, and suddenly be successful. If you’re funny, you get the job. If you aren’t funny, give up.

What’s even worse than what I momentarily believed to be the worst of it, is the fact that humour is 100% subjective. How do I even know if I’m funny ENOUGH? Just because my mom and co-workers think I’m a riot, doesn’t mean I should quit my 9-5 for the ‘biz’ (which I’d need a 9-5 job in order to do).

What’s even WORSE is the fact there isn’t a subject I can take at university for my passion, even if I wanted to. Not that I’d be any more successful in my studies than I already am not. I can’t even figure out the rules of first and second person in writing. You can’t just switch back and forth, there’s a whole thing about it in the writing community.

So anyways, that leaves me stuck here (I’m making a wide gesture with my arms to my ant-infested basement bedroom), writing ‘not-so-funny’ realisms in a journal, slowly creeping towards my Women’s Studies degree.

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