Trying to be Funny

Maybe my father had a morose sperm…

Does humor have to do with genes? Is it a trait that’s inherited rather than acquired? I don’t know. I suck at being funny. I think humor flows in semen, and that’s how it’s passed on. It’s something that comes naturally, and not something you can learn on howtobefunny.com and practice in front of morose crowds. Isn’t it?
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So when I was frustrated with my inability to crack jokes and impress girls, I seeked help from this magical thing called internet, which hosts solutions to all kinds of problems – be it calculus or life. I read those articles like you’d read jubilee editions of Playboy. I thought I could be funny. Hilarious.
The articles strongly advocate the belief that anyone can be funny. No matter what your race, religion, sex or favorite Games Of Thrones season is, if you have a sound cerebrum that registers humor, you can be boisterously funny. Like sex,humor develops with practice. The more you try, the better you become.
So I gave it a shot. I started watching Tarak Mehta and within fifteen minutes realized that it was a mistake, and so I started watching AIB on YouTube instead. Both the shows have different parameters of humor. While the first one gives you constant tiny explosions of good humor, AIB hits bang on!
I googled the topmost authors who write rib-tickling chiclits, and google blessed me with this gorgeous-as-a-dream lady named Sophie Kinsella. I happily emptied my debit card ordering her books on Amazon. I also downloaded her images and set her my wallpaper. I thought I could emulate her. Hilarious.
I read books, dissolved into puddles of laughter and became a fan. I tried to write like her but my punches were wooden. No one except DK laughed at my jokes. Well, that’s because DK owes me 100 bucks.
You see what the problem is? I am  desperately trying to be funny. But it doesn’t work that way. It’s something that’s inculcated in you, either in embryonic stage, or right after you are born. It’s not something you learn. It’s not like sex, no sir.

So girls, it’s not my fault if I am not funny. Maybe my father had a morose sperm.

It Makes Me Sad

I run away – that’s the worst thing about me.

Writing is tough. Writing a blog with this crushing liability to update it at regular intervals is tougher. It’s like your own escape has imprisoned you, like the drug that doesn’t send ecstasy through your veins anymore, but you cannot shove the habit away, like a hobby that has become a duty, a reationship that has become a noose. I thought I’d write, but…..let it be.
I run away – that’s the worst thing about me. I figured it out long ago, but accepting the fact that I’m a coward was not acceptable for me. I’d come with justifications and then my actions seemed to make sense, and I made myself believe that I didn’t run away from the problem, but I chose better options. Life then became all about finding an easier way to live. Free of risk – drab, monotonous and at equilibrium. I thought equilibrium meant peace. I was wrong. I transformed into someone who’d lack the courage to face a situation and make good choices. That’s me now – lost and defeated. I don’t even desire to fight, my eyes do not light up and my heart is just full of cholesterol. And I’m dying.
I’m the most pessimistic person I’ve ever known. I don’t know why, but it feels like the open sky above me was just an illusion, and as it vanished, I find myself trapped in a catacomb, tied and muffled.

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I think I’ve lost something forever. I don’t know what, but I can feel that heavy hole in my chest, the small missing piece. And it makes me sad.

When Clocks Run Slow…

When there’s a big moment ahead, sand falls slow…

Nikita Singh is in town!!!!
My excitement has reached a feverish pitch. I can’t help but daydream about the evening, when I’ll be taking signed copy of her latest fiction – Like a Love Song. As the name suggests, it’s a love story.

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Right from the moment I saw Ranchi as her first stoppage in the book-signing tour, I have been on cloud number nine, adding touches and shades to her portrait. Well, it didn’t come off that well, but still.

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The event is scheduled at 6 pm and I’m literally counting hours and minutes and it feels like I’ll grow old, develop arthritis and lose my molars by the time clock hits six. When there’s a big moment ahead, sand falls slow. Something to do with Einstein’s theory of relativity, I guess.
I want a photo with her but I don’t know how to ask her for that. I mean you need to be at least half as charming to deserve a chance to stand in the same frame with her. Lobsters don’t get photographed with Mermaids. I need a makeover. No, I probably need a plastic surgery. Damn! I so wish my dad had a swiss bank account. I don’t even have a nice dress to make up for my poor facial design. And look at her – an errorless face, a matchless beauty and this amazing superpower to stun readers with words on paper. She is a Goddess and I’m a ragpicker. The fault in my stars!

I don’t know how it’d go. I’m panicking as if it’s my first date. I need to calm down. I need some Malai Chops.
Okay, I’ll go and get some.