I write funny stories sometimes. People read them, laugh, and think I’m a funny guy. But here’s the kicker—I’m not. I’m the opposite of funny. I’m the guy who takes pills just to feel like I can exist without screaming inside. I’m the one who can sit still and somehow feel utterly exhausted, like I’ve just run an emotional marathon—except, surprise, I never left my chair.
My brain is like an overzealous stage manager constantly shouting directions: "Feel sad now!" or "Panic! Panic for no reason at all!" And I’m just here trying to figure out why the lights are flickering and the curtains won’t close.
Sometimes, I feel so tired it’s like I ran a marathon in my sleep. People tell me, “It’s all in your head. Just control it!” Oh sure, I’ll just press the ‘Stop Feeling Like Garbage’ button. Oh wait, I don’t have one.
The funny part is, I’ve gotten pretty good at pretending I’m okay. I’ll watch the world spin in its chaotic little dance—everyone playing their roles, stirring up drama over spilled coffee or someone not liking their Instagram post—and I’ll think, Wow, what a playground.
Except I’m not one of the kids running around. I’m the tired adult sitting on a bench, watching the chaos, wondering how the hell everyone has so much energy. But hey, I turn their playground antics into stories because, honestly, what else am I supposed to do with all this swirling nonsense in my head?
It’s hard, having both a heart and a brain. They’re like two squabbling roommates who never agree. But somehow, I keep going. It’s not easy, but it’s life. And if I can make someone laugh at this absurd mess, well, that’s something. Right?
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more playground drama to watch. Just don’t ask me to go on the slide. I’m too tired for that.
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