We don’t get half as far without laughter. Leveling up our leaps can happen by bounds of bellyaching amusement help. If one can’t always choose what they’re born into, they sure as heck can nominate their funny bones to be firing full-steam. Likewise, it’s forever open season for us to assume a lightness of becoming against any backdrop within the rings of heaviness draped around our organism. Therefore, I’ve found the chuckles of hilarity I may conjure to be a first-tier therapy. Our pathways to unperturbed order remain most swiftly undefeated when the temperament of comedy is permitted to exceed the speed limit. By finding the humor in hiccups we’ll face over a lifetime of unspecified occurrences, we’re quality-equipped with a Kung-Fu Hustle cult-classic phenomenal advantage. Pampering our intellectual attitude with the tone of jocularity can be an energetic muscle-relaxer of ease.
It seems to be my M.O. One step forward, two back, five forward. ~O’Hara Fleming (my epic family)
I’ll dare speculate that hordes of you have been there and back too. Hell, I mean. Often, way more than once or twice. Some of us even have the coveted FastPass. Others were issued an all-expenses-paid exclusive VIP tour or the Presidential Suite package. Further, there are those of us so caught in the diabolical trap that we translate it primarily as romantic. It’s principally a karmic kick in the butt meets ill-fated roll of the Darwinian dice courtesy of your universal cosmic creation. Suffice it to say, I’ve felt colossally close to my legal residence of California lately. But not in that radiant, tanned, rollerblading-along-the-Boardwalk-to-beaming-sunshine-beats kind of pulsation. Instead, I’m alluding to the internally cracked edging of wretchedness from both of us being on fire. Where physically navigating blazing rages is only upheld through equally sardonic series of biting burlesque strip teasing.
Incalculable moments from my survival parade as peacocky as pageant queens during a television special. One after another estimates they’re the greater malicious memory. My summer fling with Satan is prime fodder. This year began brimming with gratuity. Ticking at least a fair taste of three nations off my bucket list for my half-century birthday on a frugal budget was hunky-dory until POTUS Trumpeted a rush to return stateside due to pandemonium. Regardless, the cunning country-hopper in me carved a quick residence on an American island paradise amidst the global confusion. The ensuing fallout I’ve perceived as this spin-off of a branch from the Ryan Reynolds book of acclaim. A horror of villainous living with a fresh death-sentence related diagnosis of cancer compared to the former month of landing dissed by a local lover a wee overzealous at wielding his penis readily for more than one woman at a time.
Glitches can get you by letting you think the worst has already transpired. Here, I’ve been hunkering in isolation-envy, which my friends and family have mockingly pitied me repeatedly. While news of coronavirus rampaging, hurricanes, fires, international explosions, and additional black lives taken erupted, I could be located learning to surf or happily gardening carefree. Then, suddenly, doses of everyone else’s dramas start to creep way beyond just my consciousnessh. Initially, I thought 2020 was sparing me. Yet, cruelty frequently uses the strategy of sneaking up on you. Under the guise of losing out on a potential love-of-my-life affair, I figured he was my deepest plague casualty. Flash forward to this typing and I’m not merely rife with our USA Presidential debate debacle, I’m browsing the unholy damnation of doctors decrying my lifeline’s possible shortened longevity.
Compared to growing up on streets such as Compton’s, I should stuff my complaining where the rays don’t shine. Those who have that value giggling are saints to me.For everything I’ve confronted till date, I’ve never dodged bullets nor had to make a decision about my gang affiliation in the interest of saving my ass from a premature burial. Yes, I’m now synonymous with a fatal disease. Except, the Prince of Darkness hasn’t booked a date with me presently. I’m intending to give any visit to purgatory, heaven, or the in-betweens a serious run for their money if they’re pondering subpoenas for spoiling sooner-than-wanted my standards of existing. Until I’m meant to be otherwise deceased, you’ll keep hearing a jolly array of weird words from me. Provide your personal jester plenty of chances for slap-silliness smackdowns anytime you feel the anti-Christ itchiness prickling your positivity. I believe the joke’s on us if we don’t allow banter as a partial protocol with some of our pace.
May inciting your inner comic be filled with infinite fortune.