My boyfriend never laughs at my jokes, which would only not be a problem if I never made any jokes.
The thing is, being funny is kind of my MO.
Or rather, trying to be funny is my MO.
Whenever I interact with human beings, my main goal is to add humor to whatever situation I’m in.
When I’m having lunch with colleagues, I don’t speak unless I believe what I have to say is a joke of sorts.
When I’m talking to a friend who’s going through a breakup, I’ll make light of the situation at the expense of whoever ghosted who.
When I’m giving a speech at my mother’s funeral, I’ll kick it off with a joke to lighten the mood.
I’m like a robot whose main directive is mustbefunny.exe.
While the crowd at my mother’s funeral laughed at my joke, it’s weird that I compulsively wanted to make grieving people laugh as I was standing within arm’s length of my mother’s casket.
Basically, everything that comes out of my mouth goes through this But is it funny!? filter.
For some reason I think that being funny constitutes the best of what I have to offer any situation.
Of course I also have opinions on things.
But when for example someone asks me for a solution to the Israel-Palestine issue, I keep whatever knowledge I have to myself and tell anyone listening those two should fix their territorial issues with a friendly game of Twister. That way I can speak my mind without actually revealing any of it.
Haha?
I don’t know. Israel and Palestine playing a game of Twister sounded funny in my head, but reading it back it seems misplaced like a clown in a fast food restaurant.
To make matters more dysfunctional, I don’t do physical comedy, I can’t do accents and my acting skills wouldn’t even qualify me as a background character in a car dealership commercial. So really all the comedy I have to give is my own words, void of any inflection, emotion or soul.
I’m funnybot, and I’d be worse at stand-up comedy than Stephen Hawking, is what I’m saying.
Was that funny?
It sounded funny in my head, but reading it back it feels more forced than Ellen’s apology. Also, pairing the world’s most famous ALS patient and the word stand-up in one sentence kinda feels insensitive and cheap like using Anne Frank as the subject of an anorexia joke.
Was that funny?
I mean, we’re barely 500 words into a blog post on how I always try to be funny and already I’m resorting to holocaust jokes at the expense of its most famous victim. Instead of resorting to Anne Frank I could’ve also used the words Kaitlyn Jenner and driving lessons in a sentence and be done with it, or Dick Cheney and shooting lessons, but no, I just had to grab hold of the holocaust first chance I got.
It should come as no surprise my boyfriend never laughs at my jokes.
And it’s not because he’s Jewish.
Don’t get me wrong, he often laughs at me, but never when I try to be funny. It’s really frustrating. Actually being funny vs. being laughed at unintentionally is like finding Nemo vs. finding Nemo in a sushi restaurant.
Did that do anything? Or was that somehow even more disappointing than Anne Frank’s sequel?
Whenever I try to make my boyfriend laugh by means of jokes I make up on the spot, he responds with a passive sigh that briefly carries all of the world’s sadness. It’s as if he laments all his life’s choices in those moments I crack jokes, not exactly the response you’re going for when you’re trying to be funny.
Yet he still says he loves me, so that can only mean he doesn’t love me for my jokes, but for something I consider less valuable. I guess my kindness or something, or my cuddles, if that even is a trait. I know he’s not with me for my cooking, as my food tends to get the same reception as my jokes.
It gets sadder.
You see, people do laugh at my jokes. Hell, I killed at my mother’s funeral. But the better people know me, the less they think I’m funny.
Which can only mean that the people who laugh at my jokes do so because they know it’s what I’m asking of them, the same way they’d give a dog a treat for doing the bare minimum such as having puppy eyes.
Of course one way to stop the torture would be for me to stop trying to be funny.
But have you ever told an OCD patient the universe won’t implode if they don’t wash their hands at least three times, or taught a dog not to have eyes?
You haven’t, because we all have OCD one way or another and we’re all dogs asking for treats in some sense.
In conclusion, I like to eat alone, with nothing but my own thoughts to keep me company.
It allows me to be funny to the right audience: me.
When I eat alone, I get to enjoy two things that don’t amuse my boyfriend: my own thoughts and broccoli.
Enter my broccoli soup, which is the most derivative of all soups found on the internet, but it works, precisely because, like my sense of humor, it’s basic on all the right levels.
How to make broccoli soup:
Ingredients:
Broccoli (like one chunk or anywhere between 200-400 grams, and in case you’re wondering why I don’t offer any imperial measurements on this blog, it’s because imperial measurements are, like my jokes, stupid.)
Vegetable broth, like 500 ml
1 onion
1 mid-sized potato
As much garlic as you see fit
Parmesan cheese (50 grams of the powdered stuff or a handful of freshly grated parmesan cheese)
Creme fraiche (like 125 ml or whatever a handful of creme fraiche is in imperial measurements)
Salt and pepper
Fun fact:
Not only are imperial measurements stupid, they also make most other fucking food blogs impossible to work with.
Anyway, you start with chopping up the onion and garlic and peeling the potato.
Then you heat some olive oil in a soup pan – yes, I forgot to add olive oil to the ingredients because it’s something you always have in stock – and then bake the onions and garlic for 2 to 4 minutes, or 69.7 to 77.3 cow’s breaths in imperial measurements.
Add the potato (in one piece, or in smaller pieces), then the broccoli (in small pieces), stir it a little and then add the vegetable broth.
Bring the whole thing to a boil and let it gently cook for about half an hour, or until the broccoli and potatoes are so soft it’s essentially become baby food.
After cooking, take an immersion blender – yes, I’m assuming you have one of those – and blend the soup until it’s become a soup.
Next add the creme fraiche and blend it some more. Next add the grated cheese and continue blending until it once again becomes a soup you’re blending.
And then you eat.
Or rather, your soup is now ready to serve. You can even make the meal more interesting by adding some bread and french cheeses, tapenades, hummus, tzatziki, you name it.
You’re welcome!
Not another fucking food blog 