I often forget that people aren’t made up of my experiences and I wear myself out digging expository foundations for them. It’s not that I’m esoteric or eclectic, but the body of my life stands slightly aside the accepted practice of living. Even simple jokes land like a bricked window if they’re lucky enough to hit at all. What’s the difference between me and cancer, I might say, well, there’s a chance you’ll actually get cancer. Of course nobody laughs, not even me, and I wonder if they’re right, maybe sadness isn’t that funny, but how would I know?
Selena never really gets jokes, so I don’t giggle or flinch when she says, ‘You haven’t made me laugh in the longest time.’ I tell her, I guess it’s hard to find me funny if you can’t take me seriously. She looks at me sideways with a silly little scrunch I’ve never seen, then cracks up. ‘I guess I’ve been looking at you all wrong,’ she says, ‘you’re a fucking clown.’ Somehow I don’t think she means it in the Pagliacci sense, it could be gallows black but I doubt she’ll catch the irony before it breaks my neck.