That's Enough, Funny Girl

Down the hall lives the sweetest couple from Oklahoma. The word genuine comes to mind when I think of these people who are so quick to laugh and somehow exude care- if that's something that can ooze off of people. Nick is a crafty fella. He built most of their furniture himself and even took all of the artsy photos on their walls. Jenny is a super bubbly elementary school teacher who is unapologetically human and always fidgeting with her clothes. I really love these two. I spent a last night with them, sprawled across their sofa sipping wine and rolling around on the floor with their two dogs. Other neighbors came in and out during this time and I entertained the group with tales of the South and the time I accidentally burnt a rectangular mustache onto my face for two weeks.
Between the three dogs that were present, there was a total of three number ones, two number twos, and one slapping over a wine glass with our tail. It's really a shame they have white carpet.

I sat next to a beautiful, model-esque girl with long legs and shiny hair. I felt a bit troll-like sitting next to her and the more I prattled on about my constant battle with my own unibrow I suddenly realized that I get validation from making people laugh. That's interesting right? It makes my presence seem worthwhile. Like thats how I sing for my supper. Here I thought I found personal contentment by helping others and by seeming calm during those real panics. I'm not actually calm but my inability to show emotion leads people to believe that I am and people like calm people.

But you know what? I really hate when people don't laugh at my stories.
"What's your problem, man? That's funny stuff!" I remember once shouting to stoic Surf Bar patron.
(Don't worry. We go on to become good friends.)

"I love your stories." the beautiful girl told me, readjusting to lean on the arm of the sofa. Then I got embarrassed. My realization made me feel like a desperate ham. Like a laughter whore. I stopped talking and sunk down into the sofa, allowing everyone to focus their attention on the dog doing a job in the corner.

Now I don't know what to do. It feels wrong. Do I tell stories anyways?
Like a greedy addict raking in piles of laughter to spoil myself with when I'm alone at night.

It just don't seem right.