Comedy

 
I might do comedy.
 
I think it could be really good for me. Sure, I’ve been known to suffer from crippling creative self-doubt. All the more reason to go for it, right? To push through all that fear and anxiety and come out better for it in the end? Yeah. Comedy. I think it could be really good for me.
 
I could do improv. Stage fright aside, I think it could be really great. People say I can be witty at times. Not all the time. But who wants to be around someone who’s “on” all the time? I mean, a comedian who’s always funny? Talk about a cliché.
 
I could write comedy. I’m really funny. And I can’t let a little thing like rheumatoid arthritis coupled with mild carpal tunnel get me down. I have ideas. No matter how many corrective surgeries it takes, I will write comedy.
 
I enjoy comedy. Not so much my personal reaction to it. Ever since I can remember the slightest hint of laughter triggers painful and uncontrollable convulsions throughout my entire body, so I try to avoid it at all times. I’ve been to specialists but nobody can seem to tell me what condition it is. But I enjoy other people’s laughter and enjoyment of comedy. So, yes, I guess you could say I enjoy comedy.
 
You know, I probably won’t do comedy. Even though I’m tailor-made for it. It runs in my blood. My great great great grand-mère was the personal clown to Napoleon III during his reign in France in the 1860’s. I’ve always identified very strongly with that fact. And yet, I cannot help but be intimidated; to think of the enormous floppy shoes I’d have to fill. And we all know there can be only one Grand-Mère Pierrot.
 
It’s settled, then. I won’t do comedy. I probably wouldn’t be very good at it anyway.
 
 

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