Journal

February 5

Marco

When is it time to stop?

People say that sometimes, people take jokes too far.

What is too far?

Is it too far when you're insulting someone? Or is it when a prank goes to far and becomes something too big to handle?

Is too far when someone cries? When they die? When your words cut deeper than you could have possibly imagined?

All good jokes are made at someone's expense, whether it be a real or imaginary person. Nobody laughs when you use the word 'theoretically.'

Jokes are supposed to be funny. Witty. You have to know what you're talking about before you make fun of it. Nobody likes it when you tell a joke that is completely wrong. Then you become the jerk.

When you get jokes right, people laugh. They lighten up, become happier. Everyone likes you because you're the comedian.

But, sometimes you're on the receiving end of a joke. The joke is at your expense. When it comes time to face irony's cold face, can you laugh and pretend that the pain isn't digging into your heart? Can you laugh and pretend that it doesn't pain you at all?

A joke. What makes it funny? Funny is irony, funny is weird.

What about when things are horribly ironic, hilariously weird, and you can't laugh? When good old 'jo mamma' jokes turn around and bite you in the ass? What about the moments when you're completely serious, when you deeply need what you ask of the people around you… and they laugh? They think it's another one of your jokes.

'Haha, Marco, you're so funny.'

It feels as if a knife has been stabbed through your heart. As if everything in the world is crumbling around you. Laugh, just laugh, you think. You can't let them know that you were serious, so you force it. You force a laugh and suddenly they know, they know you weren't joking. But it's all a charade now. All a charade. You both laugh, and you pretend that it was a joke. You pretend that nobody knows the truth.

Yeah, I suppose I am pretty darn hilarious.

A tear dripped on to the page.

Marco always hated journals at school. The teacher liked making them write philosophically, it built character. It built morals.

He kept looking down and wiped his eyes.

Stop crying man, what are you, a baby?

His mom was his enemy. That's irony for you.

'Guess what Marco? Jo mamma's a big fat slug.'

On top of that, he'd been refused a great many times by a great many girls. He had never spent so much emotion on one girl as he had on Rachel. Yet, she loved Tobias. He knew it. He tried to respect it. But he didn't want to give up. What did that mean?

It means exactly what you think it means, Marco.

He sniffed back his tears and pretended to have something in his eye. Soon he stifled the tears completely and was able to sit up again. His eyes darted up at the disgustingly large clock on the wall. He had two minutes left to finish his journal.

"Screw this," he whispered. He turned his head ever so slightly to see Jake, who was writing frantically. "That makes one of us."

He stood up and handed in his journal, however pathetically short it was. He couldn't finish.

When he arrived back at his seat, he saw Cassie eyeing him curiously.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asked quietly.

He nodded. "Just had something in my eye."

Cassie didn't believe him. It showed on every inch of her face. Marco didn't care anymore. She could think what she wanted, he'd defended his manliness enough.

Men don't cry when there's something so small in their eye.