I’m laughing my way through life. Earthly existence can be full of such sorrow
and pain, and even a privileged male Caucasian primate living in the jungle of
opulence, such as myself, can succumb to the weight of the world. Viator is my name, and for a reason, but too
often the path leads through what my German friends would call a Jammerthal, or
vale of tears. Laughing is probably overstating the case; in fact it’s downright
incorrect. I depend on my wit and
idiosyncratic sense of humor as a coping mechanism. I need to amuse myself. Granted, sometimes other biped mammals don’t
find me amusing, and it probably doesn’t help my case when I’m cracking jokes
at a funeral. I’ve learned through the grapevine
and unguarded comments that work colleagues consider me rather socially awkward
and certainly a loner. Well, excuse me
for living! So I march to the beat of a
different drum? Whatever oddities I
might exhibit, though, keep in mind that I’m just trying to cope.
