The Clown Car Is Closed: Even the Funny Friend Needs a Nap

Let me tell you something nobody warns you about when you accidentally become “the funny one.”

You never get to clock out.

People think humor is a personality.

Baby, humor is a full-time customer service job.

Somewhere along the line I became the woman who has to keep the emotional lights on in every room. If the conversation gets awkward? Anita makes a joke. If someone says something politically unhinged? Anita reframes it with a punchline and a little side-eye. If the mood drops lower than gas prices in 1998? Guess who’s wheeled out like the emergency clown.

Hi. It’s me. 👩🏼‍🦽‍➡️

And let me just say something radical:

The clown is tired.

People think being funny means you’re carefree. Like I just float through life tossing out witty one-liners like confetti while sipping champagne and wearing fabulous sunglasses.

Meanwhile internally I’m duct-taping my nervous system together like a 1997 Honda Civic with 240,000 miles.

The truth is humor is often just trauma wearing a wig.

And honey… mine is a lace front.

I mean, let’s look at the origin story here. I’m the proud product of two parents who make the phrase “unstable home environment” sound like a quaint Airbnb review.

Schizophrenic. Bipolar. Narcissistic. Sociopathic.

Not adjectives. Family members.

If you grew up in a house like that, you learn very quickly that laughter is survival. You become hyper-aware of moods. You read a room faster than a psychic at a Vegas buffet. You crack a joke to defuse tension the way bomb squads clip wires.

Comedy wasn’t a hobby.

It was protective gear.

So now, decades later, I walk into every social situation like a one-person improv troupe.

Someone says something insane about politics?

“Wow that’s a bold take, Brad. Did Facebook come with a lead paint subscription?”

Room laughs. Tension broken. Anita saves the day.

Again.

And don’t get me wrong — I love making people laugh. Truly. That moment when someone spits out their drink because of something you said? Iconic. Life-giving. Chef’s kiss.

But what nobody sees is the backstage version.

The moment after everyone leaves when you sit on the couch thinking:

Do I even know how I actually feel about anything? Or do I just turn everything into a bit?

Because when humor becomes armor, eventually you forget what’s underneath it.

And this year I’m turning 50.

Fifty.

Which is wild, because mentally I’m still a gay kid in survival mode making jokes in the kitchen while chaos explodes in the next room.

And sometimes I genuinely wonder:

How the hell did I make it this far?

And more importantly…

Do I have the stamina to do another fifty years of being the emotional cruise director for humanity?

Because honestly some days I would like to just show up somewhere and say:

“Hello everyone. Today Anita will not be performing. The clown car is closed. The sarcasm factory is temporarily shut down for maintenance.”

No bits.

No commentary.

No hilarious reframing of society’s stupidity.

The problem is when you’ve spent your whole life being the person who lifts the mood, people start to think that’s your natural state. Like you’re powered by jokes and iced coffee.

They don’t realize sometimes the funniest people are just the ones holding themselves together with glitter and sarcasm.

So if you see me being funny, just know two things:

I genuinely love making people laugh. There’s also a small exhausted gremlin inside me whispering, girl… take a nap.

And someday soon I might actually listen to her.

But until then, if the world keeps being ridiculous, I will continue doing what I’ve always done:

Turning chaos into punchlines.

Because if I don’t laugh at life…

I might actually have to process it.

And frankly that sounds way more exhausting.

XOXO, AB 💅💄💋