Writing Style Experiment

Never fails. Put my laptop aside convinced at last that I should sleep, only to pick it back up not two minutes later burning to type something more. Life of an insomniac… with a need to write… and inability to stop thinking… over analytical… too easily inspired by the silence of night and freedom to dwell inward… … Right, freeze ray.
It seems certain conditions must be understood for comedy to really be appreciated. I am pondering the question of how something intended to be funny makes one person laugh and not another. If you have a level of respect for someone, they become the funniest damned person in the world. Perhaps as a way to impress them or because the laughee believes the person intelligent and therefore must be clever even if the laughee had no clue what the punch line was. Amazing how we assign certain qualities of wit and intelligence to our models. Of course we learn later that they are really drunk, misinformed, airheads equally capable of being swayed and influenced as we were by them. No bitterness there, I promise. Maybe God wasn’t being selfish when he carved into stone (which means it must be real) not to idolize anyone or thing beyond him. Disappointment is a bitch.
This entry is of course dedicated to my boyfriend, who admires his humorous authors for their wit and blatant disregard for societal expectations of decency and filtering ones inner dialogue of vulgarity (maybe I went too far; love you honey!). Thought I’d give it a try. It’s entertaining to say the least, freeing in a way and in another way a bold faced lie because the sort of mood this type of writing requires is like a drunk sorority girl, you’re hot enough for her to dress her back up before she wakes up just so she doesn’t suspect something happened last night, but something deep down tells you something would give you away (just to distinguish from some(Bush reference?), I intentionally used vague words in that similie). Wait. That had nothing to do with the point I was trying to make. See this is why this type of writing doesn’t befit me. It sends my analytic personality into overdrive. Who knew! Thought it would demand a Fuck you, and this, and me attitude and the ability to offend every race, creed, gender, and (enter a category which will inevitably manage to deny that white, middle class, and male are also included within it), which I have done none of. FAIL. Defendant sentenced to never writing this way again unless voted to by popular demand (did I mention I’m more likely to use clichés in this mood?). Yeah don’t ask where the court reference came. I can’t track the process, just release it.
Oh right, the point. So my boyfriend is my idol in many ways. After I began to acknowledge myself as a writer (an obviously undetermined sort), my spidey senses tingled about why he enjoys the particular authors he reads every week. Being only exposed to the type of reader he is set me up for trying to model those writers in order to receive the sort of reaction they elicit from him (paste asinine comment about expecting an asinine comment here). I also realized that maybe he won’t find my material funny anyway, simply because he knows me too well and is more likely to lift an eyebrow and give me some asinine (Muahaha!) comment about ‘being cute.’ Feminists unite!

Here is where I become genuine. The above seemed necessary in my scramble to overcome the hesitation of finally compiling my writings in one spot and the doubt that resulted. I know what sort of writer I am, inspirational, observational, analytical. But all for the purpose of improving myself, my life, and those I influence. Laughter is important, but I escape through other methods for that fulfillment. My writing is my processing. Managing my sensitivity, empathy, and genetic predisposition to anxiety disorders has been my greatest challenge. Yet, I have managed to survive and embrace the possibility of happiness through this processing. It is my therapy. My effort to inspire others while helping myself. I do rediscover the same answers to the same problems at every interval. It has become an inside joke for me. Thus my writings serve as logs to track patterns, to observe myself from a third-party perspective, to confront the hardships I encounter.
For me, strength is not a measure of resilience or push and pull, but of one’s ability to climb out of pitfalls. Health is not a measure of one’s ability to avoid illness, but of one’s ability to manage the given stresses of life. My ideas are often contradictory, and I allow that for the purpose of learning. Critics are quick to identify when someone contradicts themselves, as if it indicates a lack of true commitment to or definition of one’s ideals. I, on the other hand, strive to create a safe environment for my thoughts to move freely. This site will be my playground.

PS. Maybe the above theory about laughter and role models is crap. I watched that link again expecting to poke fun at my boyfriend for his obsession with watching that reporter receive whiplash and ended up laughing myself into shame. I hate disproving my own ideas.

This rant was not what I picked my laptop back up for. Balls.