Rofl
Sis, let’s be honest. I’ve been scouring the archives of my own fickle mind to find the last time I truly lost my composure and burst out laughing, and the results are frankly depressing. Lately, it’s all been terribly grown-up, hasn’t it? I’ve done the deep, soulful self-reflections. I’ve wept until my mascara settled in my cleavage. But a proper, rib-cracking belly laugh? The kind where the snort is epic, I risk peeing my pants, and I’m slapping the closest shoulder like early Mike Tyson? Well, that requires a version of me that isn't so perpetually unimpressed by recent events in the world. I’ve become a bit of a wet blanket, a droë drol... I’m a banana split without the cream, the nuts, or the sprinkles on top. I might manage a smirk at a dry quip or a little titter while Dave Chappelle does his set, but laughing until the snot comes out? Sjoe hey, seems like I need a tune-up again. We really shouldn't dismiss the benefits of a good laugh. It’s the best sort of medicine be...