I am the Sad Clown. I’m only funny when bad things happen to me. The more bad things happen to me, the funnier I become.

I am the Joke.

I talked with Jill today, for the first time in a week, and knowing full well that she’s been dealing with some tough, unexplained issues in her life, I tried (key word: tried) to inject some humor and levity into my conversation with her. Here’s the abridged version:

[Me]: Hey Jill. How are you? Want to have lunch this Friday?

[Jill]: My life is overwhelmingly complicated right now.

[Me]: O…kay. May I ask what’s wrong?

[Jill]: The people who need to know what’s wrong, KNOW.

[Me]: Fantastic. I feel… so great.

I am the Sad Clown. I can’t really blame her, I came on pretty strong in the beginning, and as I said before, she is dealing with *something* that’s got to be pretty emotionally taxing, so I guess I just put myself in the wrong place at the wrong time. But it’s cool — even though I was dissed, I understand. She doesn’t need some random dude asking stupid questions right now. Plus, her response and my reaction to it falls in line with the cycle of my life. Happy, Angry, Happy, Sad, Calm, Angry, Sad. But I was pretty pathetic though. I mean, seriously, what can you say after that? “Okay, let me just go crawl back under my rock and die.” It was one of the most awkward, more humiliating experiences of my life, and since we were in lecture, I was stuck there for over an hour — sitting in silent shame. I am the Sad Clown.

Also, over the weekend, my frat hosted a shot party. Long story short, a girl in my class got really wasted. She looked incredibly unstable, so I let her into my room to get her situated and to make sure she was stable. Long story made even shorter, she threw up in my room… on my chair… which is made of cloth.

She was in no condition to move after that, so I cleaned her up (yes, I stuck my hand INTO the vomit, and scooped and picked and cleaned it off), and let her stay at my place. It was pretty scary though, her friend Brian was there too and as she was throwing up, we looked at each other and were like: “Holy Sh*t, is she throwing up blood?”… “Oh wait, nevermind, that’s just the rum.”

But yeah, to make sure she was alright, we turned her on her side to make sure she wouldn’t choke on her own vomit. I ended up sleeping on the couch that night. When she woke up the next morning, she was completely out-of-sorts: “Where am I?” “What am I doing here?!” “Did we do anything?”

Okay, aside from the fact that I don’t plan on having sex till I find someone I love, I’m not a RAPIST. Plus, last night you were covered in vomit… and I’m sorry, but that’s kind of a deal-breaker.

It’s kind of funny though. Out of all the bodily fluids she could have coated my stuff in — blood, urine, or semen — I’m kind of glad she only vomited. I kept thinking to myself, “I’m so glad this isn’t diarrhea.”

Alright, this Sad Clown has a test tomorrow, so I guess it’s time to go to bed. Peace.