The Tragedy of Sir Serious Me

I once put on a top hat made of deadlines and marched into the court of My Own Expectations, where the jury was twelve angry spoons and the gavel was a motivational quote in Comic Sans.

My reflection stood trial for crimes of ambition: “He dared to schedule joy between meetings!” The mirror gasped. I wept marmalade.

I scrambled for meaning but only found eggshells of self-importance crunchy, brittle, and entirely tasteless.

I tried to walk straight, but the sidewalk was paved with unpaid parking tickets and philosophical contradictions. “Do better!” shouted my shadow, who had just enrolled in a self-help webinar.

I wore my Serious Face™ (it was two sizes too tight and came with a free existential crisis). Suddenly, I became allergic to laughter. Even puns gave me hives. What a cruel, celery-scented fate.

I tried to meditate, but my chakras formed a union and went on strike. All seven picketed on my stomach with signs that read “Enlightenment? Overrated.”

IV. The Escape Plan (with jazz hands)

I set fire to my LinkedIn profile, roasted marshmallows on the flames, and wrote a resignation letter to Reality:

Dear Gravity, I quit. Please forward my dreams to the cloud.

Now I live in a house made of whoopee cushions, wear mismatched socks on purpose, and whenever I feel the old Self-Seriousness creeping in, I tickle it with a rubber chicken until it begs for mercy.