I had a dream that an Internet celebrity of sorts — a hot guy from a reality show who subsequently gained a massive online following — went on Twitter and posted a screenshot of a text message exchange with his girlfriend.
None of these words were in the Bible. “I” and “dream,” maybe — but the rest of it is so … Chronically-Online American English. Yeeesh.
The hot celebrity posted screenshots of their little chat, where the girlfriend left a note inside the fridge that said something like, “If you eat the last of my barbecue, then you’ll need to buy me more by the end of the day! I don’t forget or forgive!”
I can’t remember his text in response, but he sent her something — and then she wrote two extremely funny, extremely witty replies. She was fast on her feet. She was funnier than he is.
Because this was a dream, I can’t remember what her messages said. I just remember that she sent two of them back-to-back, and that the second one built off of the first, and that she was actually pretty hilarious.
It made me wonder if, in real life, a dude who’s a celebrity — who earns his living by trying to be funny and entertaining— would feel threatened by dating a woman even funnier than he is.
Not to be all Carrie Bradshaw about it, but — I had to wonder. Men like to laugh at us, but do they like to laugh with us? Can a man appreciate a funny girl without getting jealous?
I’m the kind of person who’s had my senses dulled by the pandemic. I used to be fairly funny — and I feel like I honed my skills on Twitter. But between the pandemic and the decline/fall of the Twitter Empire, I feel like I never practice being funny anymore.
The only time I very intentionally try to be funny is when I submit a one-liner for the New Yorker caption contest. And even that has a (lame) element of forcing yourself to be a little more …
Not highbrow, but a little more witty than your fellow competitors. You don’t want to make an obvious joke, you know? You don’t go for the low-hanging fruit. You go for something with a little more wordplay.
Although, lately, I’ve been less than impressed with a lot of the finalists. Each week, it seems like there’s (at least) one cringe-y finalist.
But maybe I’m just bitter because I haven’t won.
I just … I remember a time when I was more funny. There was a time when my own posts made me laugh, a time when I wrote things so funny that I couldn’t believe that I wrote them. When I write posts on Bluesky or Threads, I feel like … well, like I’m being cringey. I try to write things to make the leftists on Bluesky laugh, to make the just-left-of-neoliberal Cool Moms on Threads laugh.
Occasionally, I’m rewarded with a like or a new follower. But I just haven’t rebounded — I haven’t found my sense of humor in a post-Twitter world.
By far, I’ve had more success making observational videos on TikTok and by writing observational-style “messays” (memoir essays that are only quasi-messy) over on Medium. I receive very kind and very sincere feedback on the things I post, and I appreciate all of the kindness people have shown to me.
But I sometimes worry that I will never write anything funny again. I feel like — even though I was never able to be quick-witted in person, verbally, etc., I could always post something funny online.
In 2024, I feel so … so slowhanded with my humor. I have to let a joke cook sous-vide style. So maybe I’m nervous that — should a man ever stoop to acknowledge me again — I won’t be a witty conversationalist. Maybe I’m scared than no man will ever laugh at our text exchanges, or ever feel moved to share them online.
Maybe that’s why I dreamed about this.
In the dream, I feel like the celebrity fella posted the texts because the girlfriend was extremely funny in that particular instance. She isn’t forced to perform all the time for him — I hope! — but she said something so funny that he knew he had to share it. He wasn’t jealous. He was thrilled.
I still felt a twinge of jealousy — not over him or her, but jealousy over the idea that I’ll probably never have a boyfriend who posts the hysterical things I write for him. It’s obviously just a me issue. I just need to try to practice being funny again.
And not for a random dude on the Internet. For me.
I need to tickle my own funny bone.
Jamais Mayville 