Let me venture to say that life is like a comedy set.

Endless.

And not very funny.

You’re sitting midway back. In the audience. Tepid, watered down drink in your hand. Waitress nowhere in sight.

The comedian tries. Each joke fails to land. Not even groans from the audience. Dead silence. Almost zombie-like stares. When is this jackass’s three minutes up?

Staring at the red light. Craving it’s illumination that indicates it’s done.

The light remains dark. The drink, unappealing. Another joke. A miss.

Is this eternal? Possibly.

We don’t know what’s next. We don’t care. Me? I’m past caring... and have been for most of the set.

Now, the comedian is focused. On me. Jokes still not funny, yet I am the butt of the joke. Still no laughter. From anyone.

I just want out. Escape. Make it so.

A pretty girl from the next table checks me out. She likes what she sees.

No, honey. You don’t want any part of this. Trust me. I’ll only break your heart. I have little, if anything, to offer you—besides a penis and a good time. I’ve learned, throughout this set, that is not enough.

So, I shrink. Hide. Behind this drink. Damn, it’s gross. Where is the waitress? Does she think she won’t get the tip?

Just the tip. Haha. My jokes are funnier than the comic’s.

Will this eternal set—this hell—ever end?