Funny Girls

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.

Target Audience

I once described Lana Del Rey’s oeuvre as “the perfect soundtrack for taking Quaaludes in your married boyfriend’s ice blue, rusty-handled Thunderbird.”

It still feels true. I admire somebody who can make music for a very specific demographic.

I love the idea of someone throwing their all into making songs for beautiful alt-rock femcels who are too scared of needles to get real piercings or TGI Fridays managers who drive blue PT Cruisers and look like Guy Fieri.

Although, you know, it seems like every song on Top 40 radio back in the early 2000s was made specifically for both of those demographics. Amazing.

Slap My Face Like A Drum

After finding out about Physical 100, I lost a good two weeks of my life lusting after unattainable men.

I’ve come to realize that a variety of body types are sexy to me, but I really took an interest in finding out which sports — and what types of training — these folks do.

Particularly the hottest of the hotties. I found about four or five hunks that I plan on Instagram-stalking for a couple of weeks until I forget about them entirely by mid-May. Right on schedule.

To my surprise — and mild horror — I realized I had no idea that MMA fighters were lethally sexy. I’ve never been that into abs and pectorals — not as a primary requirement, I should say. But I promptly began lusting in my heart after watching these guys grapple and run and flex and do all sorts of strength-related stuff.

I was the living embodiment of an In Living Color: Men On … Sports sketch. I was wilting internally as I thought about the streennnnnth of these MMA men.

I Googled a couple of them, admired their rippling muscles, and then reminded myself that most MMA fighters are probably headed directly toward another big abbreviatory battle: CTE.

UFCTE? Yikes. Yiiiiiiiikes.

I realized that I would be worried about my hypothetical boyfriend’s health all of the time. I would worry about the injuries and the long-term effects on his health. I would be too afraid to get into a long-term relationship with an MMA player, even though I suppose a ships-in-the-night situation is still on the table. 🤫

But just as I was about to quit searching for information on CTE and MMA fighters, I found out about the Power Slap League.

Now, I’m the same woman who said I would rather play two sets of jai alai without a helmet than to play two minutes of pickleball. But … why?

The whole damn thing is a mess. The head injuries. The poor compensation. The lack of recognition. The limited cross-over potential. The poor compensation.

And circling back to earlier themes, it’s not even that sexy.

😬

Coveting The Neighbor’s Wife

Last week at work, some folks were talking about goals you’ve seen other people reach that you also want to attain/achieve/use cut-throat violence and extreme manipulation to acquire.

But I don’t usually look at other people and think, “I want that for me, too.”

I only quote that 700 Club meme when I’m looking at a picture of a hot celebrity.

I’m not the kind of person who looks at other peoples’ houses and says, “Oooh, I want to live there.” I just say, “Oooh, that’s a pretty nice house. I love this part, but I wouldn’t want to deal with that part.”

Obviously, I wouldn’t say that last bit out loud – about not liking every part of something. Most people are proud of the stuff they’ve recently acquired. They like the parts and the sum of the parts, you know?

Unless it’s something truly far-out, like a person with a fear of mice moving into a scientist’s palatial mansion — only to realize that they installed a maze in the basement for their cat-sized lab rats.

Basically, I’ve never liked any new houses or new cars badly enough to want that exact same thing for me – everything from pets to boyfriends to purses. I’ve either liked something different, or I wanted to attain my own thing with its own personality and/or features.

To be perfectly honest, I can’t stand all these hypotheticals that come up during early morning chats and meetings, just because it’s tough to think of an “appropriate” answer to a hyper-specific question.

The other day, I felt absolutely silly trying to think of a favorite artist or architect – but I just couldn’t. It’s not that I don’t appreciate art, but it’s that I’m more of a … farm-fed type of person. 

If you’ve followed this blog from the beginning, you know where I’m from. I’m a country girl who’s made do.

I don’t go for steel and glass – and I can’t say I’ve been particularly awed by any modern buildings. I don’t hate cities — but I would rather visit a city than live in one. I know that some basically all skyscrapers are incredible feats of architecture, but I’m not into industrial-type stuff. I like things that blend in, and I’m not into, like, the Burj Khalifa. I don’t need to look at something that stands out against a desert landscape, a forested backdrop, etc.

But I really struggle when it comes to answering “oh, me, too!” types of questions. I feel like a fake person every day when I walk into work. I have a Work Persona that is quieter and softer than I am in real life. This persona is also a little bit shy and a bit of a non-assertive office drone.

I’m not an office siren. I’m an office fire detector with a low battery.

And I can tell people don’t like this workplace persona – not really – but I can’t seem to break away from it. I can’t be too … too different out of nowhere. So I’m stuck in my current (unusual, half-melted) box. Of course, I’ve never really minded being unusual. It’s the most distinctive thing about me — that I don’t mind being unusual.

Of course, I blame myself sometimes for not trying harder to fit in. I tell myself that maybe I seem too stupid, if I can’t think of a “good” answer to an icebreaker question.

But … I can’t rehearse my own life. I just have to try to live an authentic life — I just have to be me, and I just need to be satisfied with this version of myself.

A Cross The Universe

The fact that I listened to the titular album all of the time in tenth grade — and even asked my parents to buy a copy for me — and they still didn’t take me to get evaluated for ADHD is mind-boggling.

Fifteen years later, or thereabouts, and I feel like it’s just too much. I mean, I listened to Girl Talk, too, so the driving beats and tempo changes were part of that … indie sleaze party music scene. But Justice was more like … rock-club-swag-booming non-stop knives-out-in-the-nightclub music.

This album came from a time when we were fueled by Red Bull, Polyvore, Cobra Snake photographs, and Vitamin Water.

What a time to be alive!