humour // no. 22 theotherpress.ca Humour Editor forgets what it is to laugh and feel joy > Instead sits motionless for long periods, utterly numb Rebecca Peterson Humour Editor ik a curious case of meta-reporting and self-investigation, the Other Press's Humour Editor, Rebecca Peterson, has issued a statement to declare to the world that she has lost all sense of goodwill and humour in the face of current events. This statement was written in the format of a humour article, the only thing Peterson knows how to write quite honestly, and reads thusly: “Dear Readers, I regret to inform you that I have lost the ability to laugh or experience joy. This, as you might well imagine, is not the ideal condition for a humour writer. It is also not an ideal condition for a human being, but I like to think ’'m a humour writer first, shouty angry feminist second, obnoxious pretentious wine-snob third, and, down a long list of further attributes, eventually a human being. Maybe 73rd. You see, when Donald Trrrruhng— sorry, I had to pause for a moment to dry heave, even if this is a written format—when all that nonsense started, comedians everywhere were overjoyed. Many comedians and satire writers were devastated by the loss of walking material generator George W. Bush, and had hoped to ride the wave of political hilarity Valentine's Day Gothic +, ns +, -" right to its inevitable conclusion—that conclusion being anyone but Trump in the White House, and Trump throwing tantrums about it to provide further material for the next four years. That, uh... that wasn’t what happened, though. It started becoming hard to keep > we) x o 2 a c 2 yp o s B a = up with all that political hilarity, you see, right when things started getting interesting. As the world descended into a physical manifestation of an Onion article, we satirists found it hard to keep up. So, you know, we turned from political hilarity to nihilistic absurdist humour, and that worked for a while. It helped to stave off the growing panic and concern that these days are akin to those chapters in high school history textbooks about the years before the second World War, when things stopped feeling like history and started feeling like dramatic irony and foreshadowing. But we laughed because we had to laugh... for our own sake and the sake of others, we had to laugh... But I cannot laugh anymore, dear readers. No, now I simply take solace in quiet contemplation and YouTube compilations of people falling over or getting hit in the face by comically large exercise balls. I do not laugh at these anymore, of course, nor do I smile, but for a moment... fora moment, I can almost feel something... At any rate, I'm certain Pll return to the craft when the world stops sending the whole of humanity into a state of clinical depression, but until that day I do not know what I will do. Wishing you something, anything, to combat this dark night of the soul, R” Peterson then issued another statement shortly after the first: “Readers, So I asked my editors if I could go on paid stress leave for the next four years and they said no. So I guess I'll write some articles or something. R” > Views from the Taken, the Recently Single, the Recently Not Single, and the Single Jessica Berget Staff Writer he Taken You know your significant other’s expectations for Valentine’s Day. You have a routine. The routine is a dance carved out by years of trial and error, of missteps and misunderstandings, and it works for you both. Whether it’s a night out at a five-star restaurant complete with limo and Don Perignon champagne or, more likely, a night in with an absurd amount of chocolate and a pizza split between the two of you, you know what to expect, and it’s very nice indeed. You think back, sometimes, to when you were a little more daring. To when the advent of Valentine’s Day brought your heart to your throat and your throat to the pit of your stomach and the pit of your stomach to your feet and yourself to a hospital because really, internal organs shouldn't be doing that sort of thing, but this is better, now. More peaceful. You tell yourself, maybe you'll try something daring next year. Just to bring back a bit of that old thrill. Yes, maybe next year... The Recently Single The world is dark and cold around you. It’s in every look, every piteous stare from those who know, and worse, from those who do not know. For how might they understand the pain and anguish you are in the throes of? They cannot. For no one has ever known loss as you have known loss. There is an offensive amount of pink in the world. It mocks you. The very concept of chocolate, of love, of happiness mocks you. Maybe you'll watch Chopped tonight. That seems like a good idea. The Recently Not Single You are fucked. You should have known—should have known—that asking someone out in the last week of January was a bad idea. You simply did not think ahead; nay, you did not think at all. You should have waited; by God, you should have waited. But alas, now you must try to gauge how well this committed relationship of all of three weeks is going. It is not dissimilar to when a waitress asks you how the food is halfway through your first bite. I’m deciding, Deborah. I’m deciding. You wonder if you can perhaps skip the holiday altogether. You wonder if you and your dating-person are at a point where you can discuss expectations. You wonder how awkward it will be if they say “I don't want to make a big fuss” because they feel like you don't want to make a big fuss, but they do actually want to make a big fuss, and you're just an asshole. Or maybe you could just cut them off at the pass and say you have no expectations, letting them decide, which also makes you an asshole. So many paths to take. So much uncertainty. The anxiety threatens to eat you alive. The Single You are meant to be bitter and lonely on Valentine’s Day, but quite honestly, you are not. You may cast a wistful glance towards the happy couples looking as happy couples do on Valentine’s Day—red-faced, Photograph by Analyn Cuarto smiling, and stuffed with chocolate. You could also be all three of these things, honestly, and not just on Valentine’s Day, but every day of the week. You buy yourself chocolate and maybe take yourself out for dinner, or go to see friends for drinks. The sitcoms all say this is where and when you meet a handsome or beautiful stranger, but you don't, and you're sort of glad. You have plans to watch bad reality TV and stretch out in your empty bed and drink wine and eat chocolate and do all the kinds of things you like to do. And it’s good. After all, it really is just another day of the year.