My dysfunctional “But is it funny!?” – filter

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.


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:


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!

Thoughts on things (my first Tweet)

The Matrix was designed to resemble humanity at its peak, in 1999. So basically everything we have today except for social media.

That’s the thought that went through my head as I opened up a Twitter account a few days ago.

I was writing my previous post about my dad the conspiracy theorist and wanted to see what would happen if I typed antivax in the search bar.

Of course I haven’t been living under a rock for the past decade, so I can’t say the experience ruined my innocence. I was however surprised by the amount of people with opinions.

Not surprised there were many people with opinions, but more that everyone has their own opinion.

Honestly it was a little intimidating. Twitter feels like a stadium full of people where everybody is shouting at everybody at the same time and expects to be heard, understood and validated.

Some people have 20 people listening to them, others have 50,000 or more. But everybody’s screaming their lungs out all the same, and everybody seems equally unheard.

After all, who goes to Twitter to listen?

And naturally, it made me wonder: what’s the point of anyone going on Twitter and sharing their thoughts? Twitter is very much like a nuclear bomb: just because we have the technology to use it, doesn’t mean we should, or that we’re entitled to even.

Then again, why wouldn’t my thoughts on things deserve some credence? At my very core I’m a thing with thoughts. If I don’t use my right as a thing to share thoughts on a platform designed to accommodate that very thing, wouldn’t that equate to me waiving my right to think freely?

(The answer is no, just watch The Matrix for proof the world was at its peak before billions of things with thoughts started sharing their thoughts on things. The real reason I’m going on Twitter is of course for people to validate the thoughts that I think and the thing that I am.)

The whole reason I started Not Another Fucking Food Blog was to write about whatever I want without caring what anyone thinks or even if anyone’s interested.

Why would Twitter be intimidating if I decided not to care? How could both be true?

Scrolling through the #antivax feed I quickly realized few people seem concerned with that discrepancy. From the staunchest virology expert supporting facts with data all the way down (yes, down) to former A-list celebrities bragging about their antibodies and off the deep end to 5G cultists or just straight up Nazis, everybody on Twitter is convinced their opinion is the right one.

It doesn’t matter if what you tweet is true or even if you care. The only qualifier is that you have thoughts on things. And on Twitter, the things don’t even have to be real. If anything, reality is measured by how loud you shout your things.

Realizing the bar is set to such low standards, I decided to give into my vanity as well, and start tweeting.

Not because I think my opinion on anything matters, but because I’m curious to see what it’s like to be in a stadium full of people and shout at random things with the rest of the people there.

Starting off with 0 followers isn’t exactly encouraging, but I quickly realized it doesn’t matter. It’s Twitter: you always write to the 50% that gets annoyed and to the other half who thinks they already thought the things I’m thinking.

To up the ante a little, I decided to tweet a reply on a thread. By chance or by algorithm, this is the thread I landed on:

As you can see, it’s a tweet from someone who doesn’t want the covid vaccine and makes a case for it because they’re not extremist, violent or even antivax, and also because they don’t like consequences, or because they don’t understand them.

It immediately unlocked some sort of my primal instinct: I got pissed.

People not getting a covid shot at best are misinformed by an overdose of too many thoughts on things that in reality are neither, but of course once you commit to anything being a thing and some stranger on the internet tells you your things are just thoughts and your thoughts are the things you need to rethink, people understandably get confused and think both your things and thoughts must be wrong, which they know because that’s what some stranger on the internet told them.

And that little word salad describes the most reasonable bracket of conspiracy theorists.

Go down the rabbit hole further and you quickly reach a level where thoughts and things are weapons of bad intentions, so when someone says Ey I’m really a good person because, you know, I’m not a terrorist, can I please live my life, have my thoughts on things, without someone else having their thoughts on my things? I get annoyed by the immaturity, lack of morality and just overall lack of happy thoughts.

So in drafting my reply to this now already 2 day old tweet, I wondered how much empathy I should add to the mix.

What do I enjoy more: being right or being kind?

Wait, can’t I be both right and kind?

Yes, but it makes for really boring tweets, so screw that thought.

I came up with my reply. It took me a few hours. Then, after another few hours of staring at my reply and quietly basking in my own thoughts on things, I tweeted it. I remember it well. It was Friday, just after 4 pm, and I really should’ve been focused on my work, this thing that I do at the office I was at.

Me sharing my things however was a much more monumental occasion than me writing yet another blog on email safety. I was about to get back to work, but then disaster struck:

I noticed a typo in my tweet, so I deleted it, then quickly added it again:

It even got one like!

Someone likes my thoughts on things!

Afterward, I did what most people working in startup companies in the Netherlands do on a Friday afternoon: I got totally hammered and subsequently broke all covid restrictions with my colleagues.

Being drunk makes twittering a whole lot easier, I found out.

On the train back home I opened Twitter on my phone and immediately stumbled on another few tweets on the subject of vaccinations. I felt jacked up and in the mood for battle.

And why wouldn’t I indulge myself? It’s not like things ever come from thoughts on Twitter, right?

Me replying to another antivaxxer whilst getting off on my own wit

Or maybe social media really is the reason the Architect of The Matrix traveled us back in time to right before.

I haven’t tweeted anything since I sobered up, mostly because when I woke up the next day I felt like I’d given a homeless person a handjob in exchange for money – not at all normative behavior for IT copywriters such as myself.

There’s a certain kind of sleaziness to Twitter that makes sense when you’re drunk or high, but when you enter that stadium unintoxicated it’s not unlike walking into an orgy sober (talking from experience).

That said, I have a whole arsenal of one-liners at my disposal, things I think of things throughout the day. They’re all tweet-ready, and no doubt I’ll fire more shots in the near future.

Twitter only gets me a little high. What’s the worst that could happen?

To celebrate my first tweet, I feasted on some salted nuts I bought at the grocery store on my way home:

How to go nuts:



Fun fact:

Fossil fuels are basically dinosaurs, so technically climate change is their fault.

Anyway, few things are more rewarding than coming home from a hard day’s work or even just a regular hard day pretending to work and indulging on some artery cluttering gluttony. Chemically laden nuts are my favorite, in part because my boyfriend wants nothing to do with those, leaving me with more.

The recipe is quite simple. You go to a grocery store, buy nuts you like, go home, get high (optional), then start binging, on twitter, on content, on alcohol, and on nuts if drugs, alcohol and social media alone make you feel orally neglected.

And if that doesn’t do anything to cure your inner meh, you can always follow me on Twitter where I try to cure mine.

It’s not really a blog about food – Peanut butter sandwich


and welcome to my first blog on

It’s my very own cooking blog, because I looked around and figured the world is lacking food blogs. Food blogs that are worth reading that is.

You see, there’s two things I like: cooking and writing.
This I have in common with any other person with a cooking blog.
Of course other people’s recipes are almost always more or less satisfying while reading through their material is a bigger hurdle than Britney trying to get pregnant.

My cooking on the other hand is as inspiring as Rosa Parks taking an Uber while my writing is very, very bearable, at times even decent.

I guess you could say it’s a reverse food blog. Instead of ploughing through endless meanderings on how the smell of fresh basil can lift your spirits or how you can deepfry anything to make your kids eat vegetables, or any other inoffensive but equally boring piece of food-foreplay written only to please the gods of Google, all because you just want to get your hands on a good recipe, I intend to treat you to a pleasant word salad that ends in disaster:

Pictured: not a peanut butter sandwich

Put simply, I like to cook but I kind of suck at it. I also like to write, and according to some – indeed, I’m referring to my mother – I’m actually quite good at it.

The result is a food blog where you come for the food and have someone feed you thoughts.

However, true to fashion I will end every post with a long awaited recipe. So if you read this far, here’s the reward for your efforts:

How to make a peanut butter sandwich

– Peanut butter
– Bread

Fun fact:
In my home country of the Netherlands, peanut butter is actually called ‘peanut cheese’ and both its flavor and texture are quite different from the American stuff.

Anyway, you take a slice of bread and spread peanut butter all over it.

You’re welcome.