My wit’s diseased.

Sometimes I can be as sharp as a tack and get a whole lot of zingers in. In the right crowd, I can be the funny one. I won’t let an opening pass me by and I see all of them. 
And then – in other circumstances, I won’t say a word. Not only will I let an opportunity for wit pass me by, I won’t even see the opportunity. It can feel like my wit has been severely compromised, like it’s home sick with the flu.

I suspect it is all a matter of the audience and participants in a conversation. Where the audience is receptive and embraces me warmly, I can throw out jokes like they’re going out of style. Where the audience is not so keen on me or where there are already many people catching every opening that passes by I can barely get a word in edgewise. And so my wit bundles up in bed with a bowl of chicken soup and hopes to get back to work tomorrow. 


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