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.
I can’t write, I have carpal tunnel.
All-seeing, like the top of a ferris wheel.
Unpredictable, like the moment before a roller coaster drops.
Magical, like the look on a sticky child’s face when they win a stuffed animal.
Unfair, like how much you paid for that kid to squirt a water gun at a plastic duck.
Allowed a 14 year old girl to fall between the gap of two coaster cars and become paralyzed.
Also allowed 2 people to get stuck on the poltergeist ride for 2 hours.
Is actually the 6 Flags Fiesta Texas.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
She let her chest rise and fall once more, before neatly pushing her chair from the table, standing up, and shadowing over me.
“What, you’re just going to throw in the towel that easy?”
She had hinted at it before, but I had never listened.
Within a momentary train of thought, she was gone.
Following the gut-wrenching silence of her absence, I heard a familiar voice.
“Dude, we’re fucked. she was the only one who could count cards.”
This little piggy went to market.
This little piggy stayed home.
The first little piggy worked all day,
now through the fruit and veg it will roam.
The first little piggy can’t help it,
when it flirts while it’s away.
Though, it knows this is a sinful lie,
and excuse for it to stray.
The first little piggy feels pressure,
it can’t afford another session.
But the second piggy needs it,
to help its crippling depression.