Post by Shizuka Sanamizu ✮ on Feb 24, 2014 13:28:53 GMT -5
(Note: I wrote this for college as an assignment (so I swapped my real name for 'Sana') and got good reviews from friends, so I decided to share it with you! Some background, everything in here is highly exaggerated and my hometown is well-known for being wealthy. I already handed this in so if you have a comment (or just plain hate it), feel free. But make the hate less obvious. Girls have feelings.)
To whom it may concern,
What is written in this literary masterpiece is not for the faint of heart, for it describes an age old adventure. The adventure to which I am referring is, of course, the search for comedy. In this instance, my search for comedy. The weight of the world was thrust upon my shoulders when I, and I alone, was requested to compose a story capable of making the most calloused tyrant break out in fits of laughter. Now some of you may ask, “Sana, you’re the funniest girl I know! This shouldn’t be very difficult for you at all. Why are you making it sound like such a big deal?” As much as I appreciate the support that I get from all of my devoted readers, writing a comedy isn’t as easy as it looks and it proved to be more difficult than I had originally anticipated. The instant I received this assignment I locked myself in my quarters and slaved over my laptop for hours and hours, trying to put my hilarious personality onto a page without any success. The fluorescent screen and blinking cursor of Microsoft Word haunted me in my dreams. After about three days of this hermit-like behavior I realized that I had skipped all of my classes because, naturally, this assignment was much more important. Every time someone would walk into my room saying nonsense like “Sana, please come get food with us, you haven’t eaten in days,” or “Sana, seriously, get out of our room. You’ve been sleeping in the wrong room since Tuesday,” I would push them away, and this put all of my friendships at risk. About a week after I was put up to this task, I had lost everything. I returned to my actual room. I found that my roommates had moved out due to my standoffish behavior. It was then that I realized it was about time for me to change my methods for approaching this paper, so I packed my things and went on a long and daring adventure.
The first stop on my seemingly endless journey was to my hometown in New Jersey. Before I tell you about the plethora of obstacles I faced while visiting my birthplace, I need to give all of my new readers a bit of background information on this small town. Like most predominantly white, gated communities, this town was plagued with gang violence and crooked cops. To this day I thank God for making it to the ripe old age of eighteen, as most children from there were not so lucky. Now that I have painted an ‘extremely accurate’ portrait of my childhood for you, I can resume in regaling you with the events of my adventure. After taking a taxi back from the train station, I made it to my house where I found my elder sister, the very person I had been ‘dying’ to see. Again some of you may be asking, “Sana, why on Earth did you ask your older sister for help with being funny? She is much less hilarious than you and much less beautiful, too! I think you just wasted your time!” and again I thank you for the support, but she is still my family and I hold her opinion in ‘high regards.’ Alas my faithful readers, this time you were right, my sister proved to be no help. Her suggestion was that I handed in a composition of tales that involved our mutual friend John. John is definitely a very funny guy and he often the victim of hilarious twists of fate, a “one-man goon squad” if you will, but what my sister failed to see was that although those stories may have personal significance to the two of us, some people may not find them all too funny. Comedy is subjective after all. Reaching yet another dead end, I hopped in my Cadillac and drove to my friend Sean’s house seeking a better remedy to my troubles.
It started to rain as I pulled into Sean’s long, winding driveway in the neighboring town of Chester; a bad omen. I rang the doorbell not once, not twice, but three times over to no avail. Was he not home? But as soon as I had abandoned all hope and started to trek mournfully back to my car through the mud, tears streaming down my face, I heard his front door swing open. With a warm welcome he invited me into his house. I had no way of knowing our friendship would change forever. Once we had become situated in his warm living room next to a calmly crackling fire, I told him of my struggles. He was shocked and proud at the same time that he knew the person who was single handedly responsible for crafting the single most hilarious piece of prose ever conceived. We brainstormed together for what seemed like millennia, and eventually Sean suggested the unthinkable.
“Sana,” he said with an evil and insane glint in his eye, “if you were never given any specific length that the piece had to be, and the professor trusts you to hand in your own work, why don’t you just find a great joke off the inter-web (as the kids call it) and take credit for it yourself?”
Readers, I know that this development in my story must be horribly shocking for you, and trust me I can honestly say that this conversation was the single most insulting thing that has ever happened to me. One of my greatest friends had lost all confidence in my ability to entertain the masses! He would rather have me betray the trust of my professor and steal the work of a famous comedian? He thinks I’m the kind of person who hands in a half-assed three sentence essay when I’m asked for comedic gold? The nerve of him! I am not the kind of man who resorts to fisticuffs when insulted by a fellow gentleman. So without a word, I stood up and hastened out of Sean’s house, started my car, and drove directly to the train station. I knew at that moment that I would never speak to Sean again, and that this arduous task had claimed yet another one of my close and valuable friendships.
Even though the long and arduous train back to my dorm in South Carolina was packed with numerous holiday travelers, it was a lonely one. I failed in my attempt to find salvation in my home town. What options did I have left? What does it truly mean to be funny to other people? These questions pestered me throughout the entirety of the ride. I thought of all the times I had made people back at the dorm laugh at my girlish charm. They sometimes would playfully call me a “child” because I’m “immature” or some nonsense like that. I mean, so what if I won’t eat an apple if it still as the skin on it? The skin tastes gross. And so what if I think crust on a sandwich is lame? They don’t know what they’re talking about! They’re the immature ones! THEY NEED TO GROW UP!
…
I sincerely apologize for my behavior in the previous paragraph.
…
The point of bringing up my child-like behavior was to conclude my story. On the final leg of my journey I decided to look to my past and embrace my inner child. To do this I turned to a series of novels that had provided me entertainment in previous years; Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events, in an attempt to gain inspiration from a fellow author. I acknowledge the fact that there will be countless numbers of my adoring fans who will be reading this essay and that some of you may not know the story of A Series of Unfortunate Events. Basically, this series follows the three Baudelaire orphans whose parents died in a tragic fire. This fire was the first of many tragedies that befell the children as each book in the series contains a new and horrible ordeal that the children must overcome. I knew that I was at a place in my life where I could completely relate to the Baudelaires and I felt that reading these books could possibly help me feel a sense of nostalgia and return to my comedic prime, a level that I believe I was at before I took on this unnerving responsibility. All I can say is that after reading a number of these books I understand completely why people do productive things such as watch TV and play video games. I found myself reading for hours on end, book after book, wasting more time than I care to admit, eventually forgetting the task at hand. This is where my journey essentially ended and, much like the case of the Baudelaire orphans, it was not a happy ending.
I was a broken shell of a woman. My friends had all abandoned me. The three-person room that was once filled with the laugher and chatter of my roommates was now silent and lonely since they had long since moved out. My hopes and dreams were almost as crushed as my soul, and all because of this one seemingly simple task. More than anything I was concerned for you, my dear readers, because I know you all look to me for my steadfast courage and roguish charisma when it comes to my writing, and for the first time I feared that I would let you down. This is me, writing the very assignment I referred to in the beginning, the one that was supposed to be funny. Strange, isn’t it, that I would make a piece about comedy so dark? I thought so, too, at first, until I discovered something very peculiar.
As I said before I had completely given up on writing the world’s funniest comedy, deeming it simply impossible. In fact every paragraph up to this point was originally the draft of my memoir titled: The Fall of a Legend: One Woman’s Failure that Shook a Generation. I sent this draft to a friend of mine in order to get their opinion on its contents and much to my surprise they replied that it was the funniest thing they had ever read in their life. This warped my entire perspective on comedy. Evidently the way I had portrayed my “trial by fire” was comedic in its own way.
So I guess I lied to you, it wasn’t a sad ending. Then again, I leave that entirely up to you, the reader, to determine. Did I do what I always do as a writer and impress everyone? Did I overcome my comedic conundrum and create the most hilarious piece of literature in the world? Or did I write the saddest tragedy ever read by the eyes of man?
With all the best intentions, as much of a fan of you as you are of me,
Sana
The Comedy Conundrum: An Uncensored Account of the Adventure of a Lifetime
To whom it may concern,
What is written in this literary masterpiece is not for the faint of heart, for it describes an age old adventure. The adventure to which I am referring is, of course, the search for comedy. In this instance, my search for comedy. The weight of the world was thrust upon my shoulders when I, and I alone, was requested to compose a story capable of making the most calloused tyrant break out in fits of laughter. Now some of you may ask, “Sana, you’re the funniest girl I know! This shouldn’t be very difficult for you at all. Why are you making it sound like such a big deal?” As much as I appreciate the support that I get from all of my devoted readers, writing a comedy isn’t as easy as it looks and it proved to be more difficult than I had originally anticipated. The instant I received this assignment I locked myself in my quarters and slaved over my laptop for hours and hours, trying to put my hilarious personality onto a page without any success. The fluorescent screen and blinking cursor of Microsoft Word haunted me in my dreams. After about three days of this hermit-like behavior I realized that I had skipped all of my classes because, naturally, this assignment was much more important. Every time someone would walk into my room saying nonsense like “Sana, please come get food with us, you haven’t eaten in days,” or “Sana, seriously, get out of our room. You’ve been sleeping in the wrong room since Tuesday,” I would push them away, and this put all of my friendships at risk. About a week after I was put up to this task, I had lost everything. I returned to my actual room. I found that my roommates had moved out due to my standoffish behavior. It was then that I realized it was about time for me to change my methods for approaching this paper, so I packed my things and went on a long and daring adventure.
The first stop on my seemingly endless journey was to my hometown in New Jersey. Before I tell you about the plethora of obstacles I faced while visiting my birthplace, I need to give all of my new readers a bit of background information on this small town. Like most predominantly white, gated communities, this town was plagued with gang violence and crooked cops. To this day I thank God for making it to the ripe old age of eighteen, as most children from there were not so lucky. Now that I have painted an ‘extremely accurate’ portrait of my childhood for you, I can resume in regaling you with the events of my adventure. After taking a taxi back from the train station, I made it to my house where I found my elder sister, the very person I had been ‘dying’ to see. Again some of you may be asking, “Sana, why on Earth did you ask your older sister for help with being funny? She is much less hilarious than you and much less beautiful, too! I think you just wasted your time!” and again I thank you for the support, but she is still my family and I hold her opinion in ‘high regards.’ Alas my faithful readers, this time you were right, my sister proved to be no help. Her suggestion was that I handed in a composition of tales that involved our mutual friend John. John is definitely a very funny guy and he often the victim of hilarious twists of fate, a “one-man goon squad” if you will, but what my sister failed to see was that although those stories may have personal significance to the two of us, some people may not find them all too funny. Comedy is subjective after all. Reaching yet another dead end, I hopped in my Cadillac and drove to my friend Sean’s house seeking a better remedy to my troubles.
It started to rain as I pulled into Sean’s long, winding driveway in the neighboring town of Chester; a bad omen. I rang the doorbell not once, not twice, but three times over to no avail. Was he not home? But as soon as I had abandoned all hope and started to trek mournfully back to my car through the mud, tears streaming down my face, I heard his front door swing open. With a warm welcome he invited me into his house. I had no way of knowing our friendship would change forever. Once we had become situated in his warm living room next to a calmly crackling fire, I told him of my struggles. He was shocked and proud at the same time that he knew the person who was single handedly responsible for crafting the single most hilarious piece of prose ever conceived. We brainstormed together for what seemed like millennia, and eventually Sean suggested the unthinkable.
“Sana,” he said with an evil and insane glint in his eye, “if you were never given any specific length that the piece had to be, and the professor trusts you to hand in your own work, why don’t you just find a great joke off the inter-web (as the kids call it) and take credit for it yourself?”
Readers, I know that this development in my story must be horribly shocking for you, and trust me I can honestly say that this conversation was the single most insulting thing that has ever happened to me. One of my greatest friends had lost all confidence in my ability to entertain the masses! He would rather have me betray the trust of my professor and steal the work of a famous comedian? He thinks I’m the kind of person who hands in a half-assed three sentence essay when I’m asked for comedic gold? The nerve of him! I am not the kind of man who resorts to fisticuffs when insulted by a fellow gentleman. So without a word, I stood up and hastened out of Sean’s house, started my car, and drove directly to the train station. I knew at that moment that I would never speak to Sean again, and that this arduous task had claimed yet another one of my close and valuable friendships.
Even though the long and arduous train back to my dorm in South Carolina was packed with numerous holiday travelers, it was a lonely one. I failed in my attempt to find salvation in my home town. What options did I have left? What does it truly mean to be funny to other people? These questions pestered me throughout the entirety of the ride. I thought of all the times I had made people back at the dorm laugh at my girlish charm. They sometimes would playfully call me a “child” because I’m “immature” or some nonsense like that. I mean, so what if I won’t eat an apple if it still as the skin on it? The skin tastes gross. And so what if I think crust on a sandwich is lame? They don’t know what they’re talking about! They’re the immature ones! THEY NEED TO GROW UP!
…
I sincerely apologize for my behavior in the previous paragraph.
…
The point of bringing up my child-like behavior was to conclude my story. On the final leg of my journey I decided to look to my past and embrace my inner child. To do this I turned to a series of novels that had provided me entertainment in previous years; Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events, in an attempt to gain inspiration from a fellow author. I acknowledge the fact that there will be countless numbers of my adoring fans who will be reading this essay and that some of you may not know the story of A Series of Unfortunate Events. Basically, this series follows the three Baudelaire orphans whose parents died in a tragic fire. This fire was the first of many tragedies that befell the children as each book in the series contains a new and horrible ordeal that the children must overcome. I knew that I was at a place in my life where I could completely relate to the Baudelaires and I felt that reading these books could possibly help me feel a sense of nostalgia and return to my comedic prime, a level that I believe I was at before I took on this unnerving responsibility. All I can say is that after reading a number of these books I understand completely why people do productive things such as watch TV and play video games. I found myself reading for hours on end, book after book, wasting more time than I care to admit, eventually forgetting the task at hand. This is where my journey essentially ended and, much like the case of the Baudelaire orphans, it was not a happy ending.
I was a broken shell of a woman. My friends had all abandoned me. The three-person room that was once filled with the laugher and chatter of my roommates was now silent and lonely since they had long since moved out. My hopes and dreams were almost as crushed as my soul, and all because of this one seemingly simple task. More than anything I was concerned for you, my dear readers, because I know you all look to me for my steadfast courage and roguish charisma when it comes to my writing, and for the first time I feared that I would let you down. This is me, writing the very assignment I referred to in the beginning, the one that was supposed to be funny. Strange, isn’t it, that I would make a piece about comedy so dark? I thought so, too, at first, until I discovered something very peculiar.
As I said before I had completely given up on writing the world’s funniest comedy, deeming it simply impossible. In fact every paragraph up to this point was originally the draft of my memoir titled: The Fall of a Legend: One Woman’s Failure that Shook a Generation. I sent this draft to a friend of mine in order to get their opinion on its contents and much to my surprise they replied that it was the funniest thing they had ever read in their life. This warped my entire perspective on comedy. Evidently the way I had portrayed my “trial by fire” was comedic in its own way.
So I guess I lied to you, it wasn’t a sad ending. Then again, I leave that entirely up to you, the reader, to determine. Did I do what I always do as a writer and impress everyone? Did I overcome my comedic conundrum and create the most hilarious piece of literature in the world? Or did I write the saddest tragedy ever read by the eyes of man?
With all the best intentions, as much of a fan of you as you are of me,
Sana