Dear Vanessa,

People keep telling me how funny the book is. They don’t know it’s the only thing keeping me out of a padded room.

Funny in, healed out. You make one joke about being a widower and people exhale. Oh good. He made a poop joke. He’s clearly fine.

I was funny when you were alive too. I was funny after, at 124 pounds, disappearing and turning it into a bit. Grief gave me a rash under my eye. I decided it was a love bite from you. Funny isn’t a mood. It’s a tool. The thing I hand people so they don’t have to sit in the room with the other thing.

The mask is good. Years of practice.

Funny I do in public. Happy I haven’t done in private in a long time. What am I going to do? Laugh at my own jokes? That is only fun when you are there to roll your eyes at me.

Luciana isn’t old enough yet to roll her eyes at me…

Actually, I take that back.

You were funnier than me.

You laughed at my stupid jokes. Not the ones I worked on. The throwaways.

Your own stupid humor beat anything I ever wrote. You weren’t even trying. You called everything cute. Inanimate objects. My mole. You named him Moley. Your cute aggression was so bad Lola and Nala had PTSD from your squeals. Show you a cute enough plate and you’d threaten to eat it.

You sang real songs with fake lyrics. Total conviction. Toes, breakfast, whatever was in your head. I workshop jokes. You never workshopped anything in your life.

Nobody ever knew you were funny. Your material never left the house. Your entire audience was me, a baby, and two dogs.

I’m the funny one now. My stupid jokes have an ISBN. Strangers tell me I’m hilarious.

I’d rather be the second funniest person in the room.

Besitos,

Michael