I love being characterized as funny. My friend Maude says all the time that I’m funny. Every time she says it I beam with pride. I like to fight awkward with humor, but sometimes it backfires. Only… it doesn’t really, since then I get to laugh at myself, which is one of my favorite things to do. I hate when other people laugh at me. Only I can laugh at me.
I got to work the other day and realized a minute after sitting down that I had forgotten to clock back in after lunch the day before. Simple fix. I just had to e-mail Mrs. Frances, the boss lady, and tell her. She is the timekeeper. She has all the power to fix mistakes like that.
I begin writing the e-mail. Too short, kind of boring. I decide to be funny, because I figure it would deflect the fact that I made a mistake. Mrs. Frances would see my e-mail and decide that, while I did in fact forget to clock in, I took time out of my day to make her laugh. She would like that.
I open up Paint because I am horrible at artwork in general, but especially in Paint. Isn’t everyone? Anything I make in this program would be hilarious by default.
I’m supposed to be working now. But instead I am drawing a stupid picture for Mrs. Frances. I hope none of the supervisors walk by my desk.
THIS PICTURE IS GOLD! I think to myself as I fill in eye colors with the paint bucket.
A co-worker friend, Beatrice, walks by and sees me. She laughs and I tell her it’s for Mrs. Frances. She calls me a “nut,” or something like that. I’m not really paying attention. My adrenaline is starting to rush. I’m on work time making a funny. I have to do this quickly. Beatrice asks if I am going to make the picture look sad, like I’m really sorry. I point to the tear drop.
The picture is done. It’s perfect, but not too perfect. I add it to the email and hit “Send”.
I receive a notification that I have a new e-mail. Mrs. Frances has responded:
“Oh, its ok. I will make the correction.”
No acknowledgement of the picture I made for her. I laugh to myself and call Beatrice over to show her Mrs. Frances’ response, thinking we would snicker together at the unfortunate turn of events. She smiles a little. “Oh my God,” she says, sort of flatly. “You’re so crazy.” Beatrice walks back to her desk. I slink down into my chair and sit for a moment, reflecting on what I had done. I wonder what Mrs. Frances is thinking.
I comfort myself knowing that Maude would have given me a high five. My day has begun.