Stop Me If You've Heard This One

by Kristen Arnett

I want to be remembered for making someone laugh. For them to really fucking feel it, right in their guts.

A laugh passed between friends might retain a certain zest long after it was shared, but mostly it’s the nostalgia of the moment that flavors it and not the joke itself. You aren’t remembering the humor of the gag, you’re remembering the good feeling you shared with that person. It’s the funny that comes after the funny, the tinge of comedy left behind in the glass, like humorous residue.

It’s like whiplash. That’s the only way to describe it. Over and over again, violence, and then we’re expected to immediately return to normalcy. But I’m not sure we know what “normalcy” is anymore. Is it normal to be a queer person living in a place with a government that actively tries to harm you? Is it normal to know that you might attend a gay club and be gunned down in the middle of the night? But if you don’t return to “normal,” what kind of life are you living? If there’s no joy, then what’s the point?

Suffering is relatable; everyone has it tough. Watching someone else joke about their personal trauma makes our own hardships feel bearable. Jokes give us relief, like aloe smoothed over a truly wicked sunburn. And for the person making the joke, there’s the control factor to consider: if we make fun of our misery first, someone else can’t come along and make it hurt even worse. Our joke, our rules.