Wednesday, September 30, 2015

here's a story.

My life, in real texts.
I'm really good at telling really bad stories.

Well, the stories aren't really bad. They're actually pretty good stories, I'm told. They usually all are somewhat embarrassing for yours truly, but I find myself better at telling you about something stupid that happened, rather than something good.

I think it's all those years of studying the art of a good narrative, which has taught me when to hit the right notes and the right punchline. Anything from falling flat on my face on the sidewalk to getting thrown a metaphorical curveball in the midst of a conversation can end up being something funny and shocking enough to warrant a laugh. (Have I told you about the time my laptop monitor burned out in college and the Genius Bar guy gave me a lollipop to stop me from hyperventilating? Or the one where this Fuck Boy soberly made a move and then followed it up fast with a basic "jk!" Or that one time I mixed up salt and sugar when trying to make a cheesecake?)

It's a defense mechanism of sorts. Rather than wallow about the awkward thing that happened, it's better to find something to laugh about. I don't know how healthy that is in the long run, but it keeps the sun shining high whenever something makes me want to dive under my covers and hibernate.

Or I just think I'm funnier than I actually am, which is probably, most likely, totally 100% true.

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