Tried be cheerful, tried be upbeat, tried not to let my feelings show, not to blame him, not to mind when day after day, week after week, his nonchalance eroded my heart. Sometimes, being an optimist was quite the fucking effort.

Say it, woman."
"It. Woman."
"God, you're a pain.

Stop smiling. Every time you smile, an angel dies.

Humor writing requires a rhythm and timing, as well as some kind of connection to the reader, and I think that's how I tap into it.

If an optimist had his left arm chewed off by an alligator, he might say in a pleasant and hopeful voice, "Well this isn't too bad, I don't have a left arm anymore but at least nobody will ever ask me if I'm left-handed or right-handed," but most of us would say something more along the lines of, "Aaaaaa! My arm! My arm!

She smiled, and there it was again, that aching pressure in his chest. Love, or a heart attack. Kind of the same thing.