To some, like Sally, laughter is a big part of her life. Sally will schedule her day around blocks of time reserved for only shits and giggles. She may work out for an hour first thing in the morning, after which she belly-laughs for an hour and a half. Then she commutes to work, during which she explodes in hysterics while waiting at a red light. At the job, Sally organizes her day so that at one hour intervals she can save that important spreadsheet on the computer screen in order to find crazy funny stuff on the internet that will cause much guffawing in the cubicle. Co-workers respect her choice of religion, saying, “Oh that’s just Sally – laughter is a big part of her life.” She is a huge fan of Happy Hour following an eight hour day at the office that had entailed five parts work, three parts blowing snot through her nose from sudden bursts of merriment. But Happy Hour is not just throwing down shots and staring at a Keno screen; rather Happy Hour is sixty consecutive minutes of side-splitting laughter, even if some weed is needed to force the issue. Later, at home, Sally will call friends to inform them that she is watching the Saw movies right now and cannot stop giggling at all the torture and sick psychological mind games, such is her commitment to outlandish displays of joviality.
On the other hand, I am the opposite of Sally. I am on a very strict regimen of sullenness, and get very sullen when bouts of laughter encroach on my “sullen time.” I could be trading bawdy tales with friends one minute, and then the next minute – the very minute that heralds the appointed hour of downer-dom -- slump my shoulders and turn that smile upside-down. Yes, sullenness is a big part of my life, and I take it very serious.
I think that Sally and I would complement each other well. Perhaps we could even schedule our respective moods at the same time to create a sane couple, since alone we come off as two crackpots.
To some, like Sally, laughter is a big part of her life. Sally will schedule her day around blocks of time reserved for only shits and giggles. She may work out for an hour first thing in the morning, after which she belly-laughs for an hour and a half. Then she commutes to work, during which she explodes in hysterics while waiting at a red light. At the job, Sally organizes her day so that at one hour intervals she can save that important spreadsheet on the computer screen in order to find crazy funny stuff on the internet that will cause much guffawing in the cubicle. Co-workers respect her choice of religion, saying, “Oh that’s just Sally – laughter is a big part of her life.” She is a huge fan of Happy Hour following an eight hour day at the office that had entailed five parts work, three parts blowing snot through her nose from sudden bursts of merriment. But Happy Hour is not just throwing down shots and staring at a Keno screen; rather Happy Hour is sixty consecutive minutes of side-splitting laughter, even if some weed is needed to force the issue. Later, at home, Sally will call friends to inform them that she is watching the Saw movies right now and cannot stop giggling at all the torture and sick psychological mind games, such is her commitment to outlandish displays of joviality.