I wish I could. I am working on it.

But it isn’t funny to me yet. I have yet to discover the light side of my suffering. I know in my heart that there is no reason why I should not be able to turn my mental illness into comedy as so many others are doing right now, as I type thing.

I certainly have plenty of the two main ingredients : suffering, and wit.

But so far, no jokes. When I try, all I get is an outpouring of sarcastic bitterness that could flood the Grand Canyon like the mighty Colorado River.

And that’s not exactly going to get me booked at the Apollo.

Plus the unhealthy part of me starts saying thing like , “Other crazy funny people have actual events in their lives to joke about. What’s there to say about your pathetic life?”

“Then there was the time I did nothing but play video games all day. “

Repeat one million times. Ha ha ha.

And think of all the yuks to be had with a routine about being raped as a toddler! People love that kind of thing.

Then I could regale with tales of being bullied and that bullying being ignored by teachers and admins who all either thought I deserved it for being such a weird and obnoxiously bright child or at the very least didn’t think I was worth literally any of the effort it would take to protect me.

That’s for kids who are worth something, not pitiful, contemptible losers like me.

See? This shit is comedy gold, Jerry.

And even then, there is very little to talk about.

“Then there was the time I went to school, was bored out of my mind during class, hid from my classmates in terror during recess and lunch,

The hits just keep on coming.

And of course, Comedy 101 says there is nothing like talking about how you’ve never had a job or been in a relationship or really done much of anything with my life in order to get the audience really identifying with you.

Did I mention bitterness?

I have a lot of it I’ve been fucked over by life and I deeply resent it. The world let me be raped as a child and that left me far too wounded to cope with damn near anything and that, in turn, lead to an isolated and miserable childhood of emotional starvation and almost no maturation in a family that preferred to forget I existed.

And if that’s not hilarious, I don’t know what is?

Hint : I don’t know what is.

So I guess until I process all this negativity and bile, I am not going to be able to see the funny side of having my entire adult life stolen by mental illness and hving my body slowly destroyed by the lifestyle that resulted.

But surely, one day I will look back on this all and laugh.

And laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and keep right on laughing like a demented hyena until the men in the white coats come with the Thorazine.

More after the break

Six down, six up

Well that was depressing, And Irritating.

So I ordered in like I usually do on Saturday nights. Wihen my Doordash[[1]] Dude arrived and I was talking to him on our building’s intercom (the kind that works through the phone) he asked me to come down and pick up my order in the lobby because our building’s one parking spot out front was occupied and he didn’t want to park illegally and risk being towed.

In the three to five minutes they would be in the building.

Sigh. Idiots. They’re everywhere.

But I am agreeable by default. So I said yes. So then I had to get dressed and go down there to pick up my food.

That was the irritating part. The depressing part is how much that simple act took out of me. My heart has been repaired but the circulation in my head has not.

Working on it.

What I wish I had said to my non-dashing Doordash Dude was “Then use the clearly marked visitor parking right next to the door you are currently standing in front of.

But that would not have worked because they put a gate on our visitor parking out of paranoia about thievery meaning we essentially have only one visitor parking spot for this entire 120+ unit apartment building.

That seems both stupid and bad to me.

Anyhhow, the trip up and down fucked me up. Left me feeling dizzy and gave me a pounding headache and now I feel woozy and lightheaded again.

And seeing as I know I am at risk of stroke, this worries me.

So I am not going to do THAT again. They either bring my shit up and place it in front of the door or I cancel the order and leave a negative review.

I’m a disabled man with serious health issues. I can’t be risking shit like this.

I mean, all the other delivery people manage it just fine.

This Dude is lucky that I am not a vindictive person or I would log back on the DoorDash and leave a very negative review right now.

And you know that if I focused my rage through my verbal skills, those comments would be scorched earth level devastating.

That would, however, be disproportionate to the crime, in my opinion.

I won’t deny that it is tempting. But it would still be wrong.

In

[[1]] I refuse to call them DoorDashers until they also have WindowPrancers [[1]

In Reddit parlance, IWBTA (I Would Be The Asshole) if I did that.

I swear that if I do end up having some large scale serious negative health event, it will be because like tonight, I forgot that I am a gimp and can’t do normal people things.

Now to lie down and rest and hopefuully get my heart rate back down.

I wish I could just check myself into the hospital NOW, BEFORE the stroke.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.