I don’t talk so good. I’m probably one of the most awkward people on the planet. For instance, the other day I was talking to this guy. We were just chatting, you know, making small talk. The conversation went as follows:
Him: So what are you going to major in? Do you know?
Me: Yeah. I’m probably going to be an English education major.
Him: Yeah? So you’ll be an English teacher?
Me: That’s the plan. I’m probably going to be one of those crazy high school teachers and keep a dead raccoon in my closet or something.
Me: You know, because every good teacher has a quirk. Like one of my teachers kept rotten plums in his closet. He was a good teacher.
Him: Because he kept rotten plums in his closet?
Me: Well, I guess it’s more like a symptom than a cause of being a good teacher. But, you know, if I have a dead raccoon in my closet I can at least pretend I’m a good teacher, even if I’m not. Maybe I won’t have a dead raccoon. That’s kinda gross, isn’t it?
Him: Yeah, kinda…
Me: Maybe I could just nail snakeskins to my door instead.
Him: Ri-i-i-ight. You know, I just remembered, I have to go…get my eyebrows waxed.
That kind of conversation is pretty typical for me. The sad truth is, I’m much funnier in my head than I am in real life. In my head, I’m hilarious enough to have my own show. But to have my own show, I’d have to fill the audience with people who have the same low standards for what they consider to be funny that I have. They’d have to think the word “banana” is one of the funniest jokes ever. They’d have to think “getting dizzy” was a valuable pastime. They’d also have to think my laugh is a tinkling giggle and not the braying embarrassment is really is.
But I don’t need my own show. I already have one in my hypothetical life, which is going splendidly by the way. I am the monarch in my own land, which I have appropriately named Saratopia, and my subjects love me and bring me cheese every day. In return, I entertain my subjects with witty jokes and skits of my own invention. I also have many other talents, including the ability to crotchet with my feet, levitate objects with my mind, and change my hair color at will. It’s chartreuse right now, but I’m thinking of trying a nice maroon next.
Okay, I stayed up really late last night, and I’m on my way to biology, which is the perfect place to take a nap. Frankly, I’m exhausted. Maybe later I can practice carrying on a normal conversation like the average human being. I’ve written a few rules for me to follow:
1) Don’t talk about dead animals.
2) Don’t mention Gertrude or Saratopia.
3) Don’t talk about dead animals some more.
I’ll come up with more as I go along, but now it’s time for sleeping.