Shit, I did it again.

Right? Am I right?

So if you ask a question that warrants an answer, then it should follow that the question itself poses some sort of significance, right?

I think so.

Funny, I think. But that’s the irony of hypothetical questions: They’re never hypothetical.

Take jokes for instance. And sarcasm. Especially sarcasm. When you tell your friend to “oh-stfu-you-you-silly-goose-you”, you do it jokingly so that they don’t get offended. But why would you have to say something like that in the first place? Ah! Because in actuality, you really want them to stfu.

See, it’s relatively easy to tell someone to do something, or to critique them rather, without having to sound blunt, obnoxious, or offensive. All it takes is a little wit and a slight change in tone, and BAM! You’ve got a joke.

But that’s the thing about jokes: They may be “hypothetical”, but you really do mean it. You do. Like when I tell my guinea pig to “shut up”. I don’t expect it to listen, but I really do mean it. I do. (Bad example, I know. Normal people don’t talk to rodents)

I think this is why I never fight with people. I always turn things into a joke. Like Orgo. Orgo’s a fucking joke. The time I wasted studying is a fucking joke. My exam grades are beyond ludicrous, and I can honestly say, I have no idea if Prof. O’Connor is speaking in English. That, unfortunately, is how lost I am. I don’t know. I just don’t follow very well, you follow? I hope so ‘cuz I’m not making any sense.

Like I said. Jokes. I might take my failure to pass Organic Chemistry as a “joke”, but really, all I have is myself to blame for my pathetic mishap; I could’ve done better. Really. But my lack of effort consumes the sadness that would otherwise accompany a failing grade. Again. Joke. But seriously, this one class is both essential and (if I happen to fail it again over the summer) detrimental to my future. That part, not a joke.

So a few months ago, my mom managed a laugh-and-a-smirk after she found out her cousin, a childhood friend of her’s, had died in a motorcycle accident. It was this simple, non-withholding sigh of laughter. But that simple gesture, that implied casualty of something hidden, something not-quite-right, that’s how I knew she really meant something else.

And people do it all the time. Laughs, smirks, jokes, hypotheticals… they’re all forms of concealment. These little nonchalant catch phrases and mobile cliches, they’re all just trinkets, toys. Play-things. Things that hide our fear, sadness, lust, anger, greed, vulnerability, insecurity. You name it. They’re only everything you’ve found less than endearing in yourself.

Sometimes though, I wish I could really do something. Like, there’s this thing that some people do, that I’m all too familiar with. It’s that laugh. That I’m-going-to-laugh-because-I-feel-uncomfortable type of laugh. Not necessarily due to social awkwardness, but because something makes the person feel not-happy that they have to laugh or appear to laugh and be really giddy all the time. I see it in some people. It’s not real laughter; it makes me uncharacteristically sadder than I should be.

I used to have a coworker whose dad killed himself with a bullet to the head. She came in to work the day I was working when my manager specifically told her not to. She wreaked of cigarettes. Oversmoked. She probably drank more than her body weight in one sitting. Unkempt, her eyes were swollen, soiled with tears meant for someone else. Someone she cared about. I couldn’t do anything. She had this weak, italicized smile, hung on her face like if she unconsciously broke it, her body would follow. I couldn’t do anything. And I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t undo what had happened, and I really did feel sorry for her. Like no one else. And if I could’ve sold my soul to the devil, I would have. Because days, weeks, and even months after that, every time she smiled…

I couldn’t take it.