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My name is Ryan Fay, and I am an addict. My addiction rules my life because one of the few things that make me feel truly alive is the rush that comes from scratching that itch.

I am addicted to bad jokes.

Puns, one-liners, word play, dark humor, photo bombs, memes – oh, god, the memes … anything and everything, you name it. You have no idea how many dick jokes I have made.

Nothing feels better than the rush that comes from making a joke that turns a bland moment into a memory or makes someone break into giggles during a serious moment.

My addiction has been getting worse. Laughter releases endorphins, the “feel-good” hormone. What I feel is something else. At first, it was the endorphins. Then it was almost like adrenaline. Now I don’t know what I feel anymore.

It has gotten to the point that quips fall out of my mouth before my brain realizes what happens.

This tends to ruin most relationships.

My friend told me that she had to put her dog down because he couldn’t walk anymore, and all that came out was “That’s ruff.” I caught a lot of heat for that pun. Not cool.

I have an incredibly hard time getting a second date. There was that personal trainer that asked if I was into fitness, and the reflex was to say “Yeah, fitness pizza in my mouth.” I started an argument with a goth girl over Invader Zim, so I could say “Sorry, didn’t realize 90s cartoons were a Hot Topic.” I managed to score a date with a former Disney princess. When she told me that her favorite character was Eeyore, I said “I never cared for him. He’s an ass.” I am an ass.

A pun broke my stepdad’s heart that time he asked if he could help with my tangled fishing line, and I said “You’re not my reel, dad.” I like quiet fishing trips as much as the next guy but not awkward silences.

I got kicked out of a D&D group. Naming a rock ‘n’ roll bard Elvish Presley was cute, but I ended up spending way more time thinking about terrible one-liners for extremely specific situations than helping solve puzzles. There was that time I insisted that we couldn’t camp for a night at an abandoned dig site because “We can’t build our dreams on suspicious mines.” Everyone pretends to chuckle until you cast a spell called “hunka-hunka burnin’ love” and set the group healer on fire. I’m not allowed to game night anymore.

I am pretty sure almost every waitress I have ever had has at least been tempted to spit in my food. I would like to go to breakfast just once without the waitress asking if I’d like coffee and me answering “No, thanks, not my cup of tea.” One time I asked for a cup of ice juice. Why couldn’t I just say water?

If I don’t get a laugh, I don’t feel alive.

I need help to break up with this addiction, but I’m afraid I’ll replace it with something worse. Please help me. Or just let me spiral downward into the gutter that is mime.

Ryan Fay

Ryan is an editor and semi-pro author with life goal of having enough money to buy the cool things people make in DIY videos.

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