Some people laugh at jokes. Me? I laugh at my life. Clearly, it’s scripted by a drunk screenwriter who believes my brain is just an extra holding a lamp in the background scene. You know, the one who waves awkwardly at the camera by mistake.

When people ask me, “What makes you laugh?” I simply say, my confidence. Yes, my confidence—the most loyal clown I’ve ever hired. Always shows up at the wrong moment, juggling flaming torches while shouting, “Relax, dude, we totally got this!” Then it vanishes the second disaster walks in the door.

Allow me to introduce Exhibit A. Exam day at college. I strutted into the exam hall feeling like Einstein after three cups of coffee. I had studied physics all night—formulas, Newton, gravity, apples dropping dramatically. I sat down, smiled confidently, and opened the paper. Boom. Not Physics. Language. LANGUAGE! The class I’d ignored harder than spam emails offering free cruises.

But guess what happened? Passed. Because apparently, the universe thought, “Let’s reward stupidity today, just for kicks.” Physics—the one thing I genuinely studied? It glanced at me coldly and said, “Oh, you thought we were friends?” Failed miserably. Beautiful. Tragic. Absolutely Shakespearean.

Exhibit B. Another exam morning. My brain whispered gently, “Hey champ, you’ve studied enough. Celebrate with a movie.” So naturally, like the wise philosopher I am, I went. Morning show, popcorn, emotional scenes, tragic heroes—full cinema experience. Came back, exam time. My head still buzzing with dramatic dialogues and unresolved plot twists. Yet again, I passed. By this point, I’m convinced God outsourced my life to a comedy writer who’s secretly trying to win a bet.

Honestly, my brain confuses me. One day it’s a profound philosopher pondering life’s meaning. The next, it’s a hyperactive circus monkey swinging wildly between bad ideas. But most days? It’s an exhausted goat standing alone in the rain, chewing on the same soggy thought over and over again.

That’s exactly what makes me laugh. Not memes, not witty jokes, but this everlasting reality prank show titled “Me Trying to Be Serious About Life.” My brain has only one guiding rule: Why calmly stroll down the straight path when you can perform eighteen somersaults, land face-first into mud, and then confidently claim, “Yes, exactly as planned!”

So yeah, laughter? Never chased it. It just trails behind me like an unpaid intern holding a clipboard overflowing with terrible ideas and regrets.

So, tell me—has your brain ever gently pushed you off the cliff of stupidity, whispering lovingly that you’d totally fly? Or am I alone in being betrayed daily by my own neurons?