2326: Purpose

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In response to the WordPress Daily Post prompt for June 2, 2016.

Purpose is, I am told, that little thing that lights a fire under your arse. Trouble is, finding one’s purpose and then being able to actually, you know, follow it somewhere constructive is a bit harder than just lighting a match beneath your hairy, sweaty ringpiece and hoping for the best.

I don’t think I’ve found my purpose yet. This is probably self-evident to those of you who have either been following this blog for a while or who know me in real life. It’s not through lack of trying, mind you — I’ve tried all manner of different things, but none of them seem to have quite worked out in a way that is any way satisfactory. I’ve either found myself realising that no, I don’t really want to do that thing after all — or in the few cases where I’ve found myself actually enjoying something that I’m doing, I find the opportunity snatched away from me through circumstances entirely beyond my control.

The closest thing I feel I have to any sort of purpose is to write. About what? I don’t know. Games obviously spring to mind, as I do a lot of writing about those from various perspectives, and indeed one of the writing projects I’m finding most enjoyable at the moment is the production of in-depth studies of games over on the sister site to this blog, MoeGamer. I’m currently into my third month of producing work of this type, and I’ve even managed to attract a few people to my Patreon to support me financially in appreciation for my writing, which is nice. Not enough to live on, by any means, but a bit of pocket money each month, if nothing else.

What else do I feel qualified to write about? Music is another thing; music may not be as much of a focus in my life as it was when I was at school, but it will always be a big part of who I am, and I feel pretty confident both talking and writing about music — and indeed teaching it.

On the subject of music, I have a curious (and probably not all that interesting) anecdote to share. I tend to find that my subconscious often reflects things that are at the back of my mind or causing me anxiety through my dreams, and one recurring dream I seem to have is that I’m back at my old school, I know that there are orchestra and concert band rehearsals going on — these are both groups that I was a member of throughout my entire time at school — but I deliberately choose not to attend them, nor to participate in the regular school concerts. In the dreams, I often run into my old music teacher Mr Murrall, one of my absolute favourite teachers in the whole school, and he’s extremely disappointed in me for not attending. Perhaps this is some sort of subconscious signal that I should try and do more with my music once again — question is, what?

That annoying question “what?” is the thing that I feel holds me back most from finding a purpose. Whenever I look for a job, I get hung up on what I should be looking for. Whenever I consider offering private services such as music teaching, I wonder what I should be charging and offering. Whenever I consider training myself up in a new field to try and find a new career, I stall on what I should be studying. What, what, what.

What should I do? I don’t know. But hopefully the answer will come to me at some point, otherwise I’ll just find myself staggering into middle- and old age feeling like I’ve not really accomplished anything along the way. And that’s not a prospect I’m particularly happy about.

2286: Disappointment

This post is a response to WordPress’ “Daily Post” writing prompt for today.

My immediate reaction to the word “disappointment” when seeing today’s writing prompt was… well, disappointment in The Daily Post’s prompts of late.

Longtime readers may recall my occasional use of The Daily Post’s writing prompts and the fact that they led to some interesting explorations of topics I might not normally explore on this blog. My default go-to topics for writing about are video games, games journalism and mental health issues, but the prompts from The Daily Post gave me a nudge to consider other topics now and again, whether they be nostalgic, hypothetical or just plain weird.

Lately, though, the prompts on the site have just been single words, and these don’t inspire me nearly as much as the questions or phrases that used to make up The Daily Post’s bank of writing prompts. I’m trying to pin down exactly why the change to this style of prompt fills me with such disappointment, and I think it’s because it provides the opportunity for too broad a range of things to write about; single-word prompts are too flexible.

Let me explain what I mean. When I decide to make use of a writing prompt for a day’s post, I like it being in the form of a question or an exam-style “Phrase. Discuss.” prompt because it provides some sort of direction to the writing. Creativity is, to me, at its most interesting when you work within some sort of constraint, because you then have to not only use your creativity to produce the work itself, but you also have to use your creativity to perhaps bend the rules of the constraint in question, too. A single word doesn’t constrain me at all; I can still pretty much write about anything tangentially related to, say, “disappointment”, and I’ve technically fulfilled the brief. That, to me, isn’t a helpful writing prompt. That, to me, makes me feel like I should have just started writing any old thing off the top of my head rather than looking for a prompt.

I’m aware that my experiences and feelings about this aren’t going to be the same as everyone else’s, and that there are doubtless plenty of bloggers out there who relish the chance to tackle the challenge of a single-word prompt and make it interesting. But for me, I always found The Daily Post much more enjoyable when it provided much clearer briefs and prompts on what to write about — and much more interesting to see how other people interpreted these briefs, too.

Hopefully we’ll see a return to form for The Daily Post at some point in the near future. If not, well, I may have to contemplate setting up something of my own. I can’t be the only one feeling disappointment in this way!

2220: Evasive Action

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“What’s the most significant secret you’ve ever kept? Did the truth ever come out?”
Daily Post, February 17, 2016

To be honest, I don’t have all that many secrets. I spew most of the things that many people might keep private on this blog most days, as I figured out a while back that keeping secrets from people is a sure-fire way to lead to mistrust and awkwardness.

As such, I have to look back to my past to ponder the subject of secrets. And, I have to say, even then, I didn’t have that many in the way of significant secrets. For the teenaged me, though, no secret was more sacred than who I fancied at any given moment.

Deciding I liked someone always felt like a significant moment when I was young. It was always a conscious decision, and there was always some sort of stimulus that triggered previously dormant feelings of attraction and affection towards someone. I’ve never been someone who was solely attracted to others based on physical appearance; even as a teenager, I could appreciate how aesthetically pleasing someone might be, but I would never consider myself to like them until I had some idea of what kind of person they were.

I didn’t need to know a lot about them, mind; being shy and socially awkward from a young age, a member of the opposite sex giving me the time of day and actually talking to me without being obviously repulsed by my bad hair, bad skin and periodic outbreaks of zits was usually enough to trigger a feeling in the pit of my stomach that was both delicious and uncomfortable; I tended to think of it as the old cliche “butterflies in the stomach”, and while there was not one single instance while I was still a teenager where my feelings were requited — my first girlfriend was more a case of circumstance rather than prior attraction, but perhaps more on that another time — I secretly rather enjoyed the feeling of liking someone from afar.

This would lead to internal conflict. My feelings towards that week/month’s object of affection would grow and grow, but with them being a sacred secret to me, I wouldn’t breathe a word about them to anyone, because I’d got into my head that if anyone found out that I liked them, they’d immediately and automatically start hating me. On the few occasions where I did successfully pluck up the courage to admit to someone that I liked them “that way”, not one of them automatically started hating me, which was always a pleasant surprise, but it didn’t stop me feeling that way until… well, perhaps not ever. I’m quite insecure.

Anyway. Eventually those feelings would reach boiling point and despite them being a sacred secret, I’d have to tell someone. Not the person in question though, of course, absolutely not. No, I’d usually tell one of my friends, who would then, usually, proceed to either immediately tell the person in question or, more commonly, hijack one of my school exercise books and scrawl the name of my desired paramour across the middle pages in rather ornate, artistic text. On one particularly memorable occasion the book was returned to me with the name in question actually painted with watercolours, which I thought was rather more effort than warranted by the news that I, once again, fancied that girl I sat next to in orchestra who played the clarinet with me. Perhaps it was my friends’ own peculiar way of demonstrating their affection and support for my numerous doomed, unrequited loves.

Regardless, though, that sort of thing makes up the majority of what I’d consider to be significant secrets in my life to date. I’m not sure if I should be pleased I haven’t felt the need to keep many things secret, or a little despondent at the fact I apparently live quite a boring life…

2210: Live to Eat

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“Some people eat to live, while others live to eat. What about you? How far would you travel for the best meal of your life?”

The Daily Post, February 7, 2016

Some time ago, I wrote about how I’m not a foodie. Things haven’t changed all that much, but I mention this now because it’s relevant to the Daily Post prompt for today.

For me, food is something I very much enjoy — hence my weight problems, to be perfectly frank — but not in the same way as people who really enjoy food enjoy it. No, I’m not one who is keen to have a delicate bouquet of flavours exploding on my tongue as I take a miniscule mouthful of something that looks more like a piece of modern art than an actual meal — I’m someone who likes to have a big ol’ gobful of something that tastes good, and preferably a lot of it. If the thing that tastes good is also reasonably not-awful for you, then so much the better, since if there’s one thing I learned since starting Slimming World, it’s that there are a lot of tasty things out there that you can eat completely guilt-free.

I was particularly conscious of my feelings towards food when Andie and I were watching the recent series of Masterchef: The Professionals. I found the programme a bit tedious, to be honest, because every episode was very similar to the last, and very little of the food actually looked appealing to me. These chefs — who I’m sure are at the very pinnacle of their craft — were taking things that would have been delicious in their most basic forms, then complementing them with bizarre crap like “pea puree” and baffling combinations of herbs and spices. Even on desserts. If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s putting weird combinations of herbs and spices on desserts. Rosemary is for lamb in a pinch — though I prefer it without — not cake or ice-cream.

The most peculiar thing I think I’ve eaten and actually enjoyed was when my friend Tim — who emphatically is a foodie; you can tell this by the fact he has a favourite truffle oil — made a Heston Blumenthal (I think) bacon ice-cream for us to enjoy one evening. I wasn’t entirely convinced that this was going to be nice when it was first posited, but then I thought about it — and thought about how nice bacon is with sweet things like maple syrup and pancakes — and realised it might not be that bad. And indeed it wasn’t that bad at all — indeed, I’d go so far as to say it was genuinely nice. Would I have it in preference to a nice bowl of Cornish vanilla slathered in chocolate, caramel or strawberry stickies, though? Of course not.

So in answer to the question above, then — how far would I go for the best meal of my life? — I guess I would have to say “the kitchen”. Or, at a push, “the pub” or “Tesco”. Because although I enjoy my food, I can’t say it’s something I seek a life-changing experience from. And I know from experience that no amount of Michelin Star-winning chefs will make me enjoy nouvelle cuisine or whatever you’re supposed to call that bollocks now; give me a nice hearty chilli, or a lump of pork with some nice potatoes, or a rack of lamb, or anything that just makes you feel full and happy to eat, and I’ll be satisfied. And you can keep your pea purees.

2151: Life Line

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“You’re on a long flight, and a palm reader sitting next to you insists she reads your palm. You hesitate, but agree. What does she tell you?”

Daily Post, December 10, 2015

[This didn’t post yesterday for some reason, so here it is today.]

“Hmm,” she says in a long, drawn-out sort of way, clearly milking the moment for maximum drama. I look around, conscious that other passengers are surreptitiously watching to see what’s going on, clearly having overheard her request. Then I look back at her. She’s gazing intently at my proffered palm, running her fingertip down what I assume, as a layman, to be my “lifeline”, but she’s saying nothing for the moment; all I can hear is the low drone of the engines, and the somewhat subdued conversation of the other passengers in the cabin.

“Your path has been a meandering one,” she says at last. “You have stumbled headlong into chaos on frequent occasions, or perhaps it is more accurate to say that chaos has sought you out; it is hard to tell at this point.”

I say nothing but incline my head slightly in silent agreement. Well, she’s off to a running start, at least.

“You have endured many hardships on your travels,” she says. “They may not have been physical hardships, or even hardships that people could see you struggling with, but they were hardships nonetheless.”

I feel my skepticism fading away a little as she offers what appears to be an accurate assessment of my life to date; that said, there’s still a little voice in the back of my mind pointing out that everything she’s said so far is fairly ambiguous and could probably be applied to anyone.

“Your pain has helped to forge you,” she continues. “Your struggles have made you stronger, but at a cost: turbulence, uncertainty, a lack of clarity.”

I glance around to see how many passengers had reacted to the mention of “turbulence” — not a word you want to utter on a plane in most instances — but most people in the immediate area appear to have returned to their own business, or at least are being subtle about their eavesdropping if they are indeed indulging their own curiosity.

She’s not wrong, but again, these statements could probably apply to anyone out there. Without context and specifics, I remain not entirely convinced of her reading’s veracity.

“Your future remains uncertain,” she says, her finger apparently reaching its destination on my palm and ceasing its movement; she doesn’t break contact, however. “You desire nothing more than to know exactly what the future holds, and how you can ensure you are on the correct path. But the truth is that there is no correct path, only the path that you choose to take. While it may feel like you are at something of a crossroads right now, be sure that you will make a decision and proceed down a road, and that road will be the correct one for you. It may not be today, it may not be tomorrow, it may not even be next year. But your route will one day be illuminated, and you shall find your way.”

She releases my hand, which plops back into my lap.

“Thank you,” I say simply. Ultimately I’m not sure I’ve learned anything particularly new from her statements, but if nothing else they gave me pause to reflect on my life, the decisions I’ve made, the decisions that were made for me, and what the future might hold, as uncertain as it might be.

Finding that route will be scary, no doubt, but as I look at her gently smiling at me, I feel like there’s at least one person out there who has faith I’ll make the right choices somewhere along the way, and that everything will work out for the best.

I hope she’s right.

2131: It Builds Character

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[For some reason this failed to publish when I wrote it yesterday. Apologies.]

“Tell us about a favorite character from film, theater, or literature, with whom you’d like to have a heart-to-heart. What would you talk about?”

From the Daily Post writing prompt, It Builds Character.

There are any number of interesting characters from a variety of media I’d like to do this with, so in order to prevent analysis paralysis I’ll simply go with the character that popped into my head immediately when I saw this prompt: Milla Maxwell from Tales of Xillia.

Milla was a big part of why I enjoyed Tales of Xillia and its sequel so much. She was a well-defined, very distinctive character, both visually and in terms of her personality — and even so far as her slightly lisping English voice acting went — who has stuck with me long after I was done with those games.

Milla, for those unfamiliar with Xillia is… well, to be honest, it’s a long and complicated tale that is explained over the course of two games, but suffice it to say that she’s not quite “normal” in that she’s lived in isolation from human society for a very long time and has mysterious, quasi-magical powers thanks to her ability to commune with the Great Spirits.

All this stuff isn’t why I’d want to hang out with Milla, though. I’d want to hang out with her simply because she’s cool, and smart, and funny — but endearingly naive about lots of things. Her isolation from human society leads her to ask interesting but not always entirely socially acceptable questions, and her curiosity about the world is infectious. She knows how to get things done when the occasion demands it, but she also knows that it is important to enjoy yourself and indulge your body and mind’s demands when you’re aware of them.

Mostly, she just seems like a nice person, and someone I’d enjoy spending time with. There’s not a single point in either of the Xillia games where Milla has a mean word to say about anyone — the cast as a whole is pretty closely-knit and pleasant, but Milla stands out even among them — and even when confronting her enemies, she’s keen to understand them and why they are the way they are.

What would we talk about, though? Well, Milla’s naivete means that we’d almost certainly have a lot to talk about, particularly if I were to introduce her to things with which she wasn’t overly familiar. Perhaps I’d play some music for her, and attempt to explain the emotional power that sound has over us. Perhaps I’d show her some video games — I could show her her own game, that’d raise an interesting conversation, I’m sure — or sit her down and attempt to engage her interest with a board game. All of these activities would doubtless prompt the question “why?”, and one of the nice things about Milla is that when she asks this, she’s not being facetious, sullen or passive-aggressive about not wanting to do something; she genuinely wants to know and understand why people choose to partake in particular activities. And I think helping her with those big questions would make for some absolutely fascinating conversations.

So, Milla Maxwell, if you ever feel like stopping by, well, I’m pretty sure I can keep you occupied, entertained and intrigued for quite some time, and that’s not something I can say with confidence to many people!

2114: Million-Dollar Question

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Million-Dollar Question.”

“Why do you blog?”

I’ve answered this question before numerous times on these very pages, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to contemplate it again, particularly for the benefit of those who have only found me recently and are disinclined to trawl through over 2,100 previous posts to find previous answers.

I blog for numerous reasons. Mostly habit, to be perfectly honest; after 2,114 days of writing something each and every day, it is very much part of my daily routine now, even if I do habitually leave it until the “last minute”, as I have done once again today, writing this at 1:10 in the morning when I have work at 9am.

The reason why I started, though, was to be part of something that sounded interesting. A few people I followed on Twitter at the time started talking about the hashtag #oneaday, which I investigated further and discovered was an attempt to write something each and every day for a year. The intention was not necessarily to write something good each and every day for a year, but more to get into the habit of writing something on a daily basis. The more you do something, the more you develop your craft, after all, and in something inherently creative like writing, the more you do something, the more you develop your own personal style, too. Since most of the people participating in the hashtag were games journalists to varying degrees, keeping their writing skills fresh was obviously a good idea.

I jumped on board — a little later than some of my comrades, but still within January. I kept an eye on what others were up to and sometimes drew ideas and inspiration from their work, but I was somewhat surprised to discover that a goodly proportion of the people who started in that January decided to abandon the project remarkably quickly. One of these people who jumped ship quickly was the person who appeared to have started the whole shebang in the first place. I decided that I was going to be stubborn, though, and I was going to stick it out until the end of the year.

So I did, along with a few others with a similarly stubborn streak. Then I kept going. Some of those others continued on with me; others joined the cause; others still abandoned the idea altogether. I continued for another year and kept going and going and going. Now, to my knowledge, I’m the only member of the original crew who is still writing something every day, though I have stayed in touch with quite a few of the people I met over the course of the first couple of years of this project.

Writing something every day is challenging. Not because the act of writing is itself particularly difficult, but because it can be a real challenge to come up with something to write about every day. I don’t like to spend too many days in a row writing about the same thing — those who follow me regularly will know that I could probably rabbit on about Final Fantasy XIV for months non-stop at a time — but rather spread my wings a bit and write about other topics, be they things that have happened that day, things that I’ve seen on social media, frustrations I’ve felt or successes I want to celebrate.

Finding those topics has encouraged me to use writing as an outlet for the things that occasionally swirl around inside my head and are in need of expressing, but which I find difficulty expressing out loud to another person face-to-face. Writing allows me to put things across I am unable to — or unwilling to — talk to people about in person, in other words. Interestingly, though, the more I write about things, the more I feel I am able to actually talk about them too; perhaps because I know that some people have read the things I’ve written and thus know all the most pertinent details before I start actually addressing them directly.

It’s been a helpful form of quasi-therapy, in other words; it allows me to work through things that might feel like they were unresolvable or frustrating if I left them inside my head. Sometimes the things I want to talk about really are unresolvable, but the simple act of communicating them in some way relieves some of the “pressure” because I’ve been able to express how I’m feeling — and indirectly help other people understand what it is I’m thinking.

So, as long as I have an Internet connection, a keyboard and working fingers, I have no intention of stopping just yet. I do occasionally ask myself why I keep bothering when my regular reader numbers are so (relatively) low, but my answer is pretty much always the same: I’m writing for me first and foremost; if other people derive some entertainment, comfort or understanding from it, so much the better, but my first priority when I write is always expressing my own thoughts and feelings.

2102: Seven Wonders

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Seven Wonders.”

“Khalil Gibran once said that people will never understand one another unless language is reduced to seven words. What would your seven words be?”

Regular readers will doubtless be aware that I require considerably more than seven words to get my point across in most situations, but this is an interesting question, regardless. What are the most fundamental things that you might need to communicate with other people? And, by extension, if those were the only things you were able to communicate, what effect might that have on your life?

A hasty answer to this question would consider fairly “obvious” words that reflect basic survival: food, drink, friend, dangerous, stop, help, run. Being forced to rely on words like that, though, would essentially put us on the level of primitive man: living for nothing more than basic survival and basic relationships with one another that boil down to people and things being good or bad. That, while a stable existence, would be rather dull.

So you could throw some words in there to spice things up a bit. Love. Hate. Sex. Kill. Although with those latter two in particular, you’re still not really operating on a level anywhere particularly beyond that of the cavemen.

But with only seven words to play with, how on Earth can you hope to make yourself understood? How could you possibly express yourself in all the many weird and wonderful ways humanity does today? These two things aren’t necessarily the same, since expressing yourself “clearly” does not necessarily mean that you’re being understood.

Well, then, you have to consider that not everything about communication involves words. Humanity can communicate with eye contact, with body language, with physical contact, with visual imagery, with music, with sound, with empathy, with sympathy. Consider the works of art that you might have indulged in that have no words as such: silent movies, instrumental pieces of music, visual art, dance recitals, even video games like Flower and Journey.

When you think about it that way, do we even need words at all? Well, yes, I think we probably do, since expressing the fact that you’re hungry entirely through a spectacular but ultimately impractical ballet performance is not really the most efficient way to go about things. But with the above in mind, what it does mean is that we could get by with a bare minimum of language to cover our basic needs — food, drink, friend, dangerous, stop, help, run, perhaps substituting “sex” for one of those depending on your attitude towards fornication — and the actual expressive side of communication could be handled entirely by non-verbal forms of art.

That would certainly be an interesting way to live, but to be honest, I think I like words too much to ever want to abandon them in that way. So don’t worry, dear reader; tomorrow’s post will be made up of more than the seven words I’ve proposed today. And I hope the words I choose will help you to understand me just a little bit more than the day before.

2089: Connect the Dots

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Connect the Dots.”

“Scour the news for an entirely uninteresting story. Consider how it connects to your life. Write about that.”

When looking for “entirely uninteresting stories”, your first port of call should almost certainly be your local newspaper. Sure enough, the Daily Echo didn’t disappoint with this marvel:

BREAKING: City bridge closed due to ‘police incident’

A SOUTHAMPTON bridge was closed this evening due to a ‘police incident’.

The Itchen Bridge was shut at around 6.30pm but the exact nature of the incident is unknown.

And the bridge was quickly reopened at 6.40pm.

This is currently the top story on the Daily Echo website, which probably gives you an idea of the sorts of things that get posted on there. But let’s ponder the actual question from the daily post: how this connects to my life in some way.

Well, okay. This is actually quite an easy one in many ways. The most obvious connection, of course, is that I live in Southampton, and consequently I know where the Itchen Bridge is. But the connection actually runs a little deeper than that: about five or six years ago, I used to live very near the Itchen Bridge in the town centre. The bridge itself was within walking distance, only about five minutes or so away. This didn’t really have much of an impact on my life for the most part, as I tended to find other ways to cross the river owing to the toll gates at the other side of the Itchen Bridge. But during my oft-mentioned “difficult period” in my life — the time my first wife left and my life pretty much fell apart — the bridge became somewhere that I liked to occasionally head towards in order to just stand and reflect.

I don’t think I ever seriously considered jumping off the bridge, though with my mental state at the time I won’t lie to you: I certainly thought about it more than once or twice. Ultimately I knew that I’d never actually have the courage to do it, though, for all manner of reasons: firstly, part of me, despite being deeper in a pit of misery than I’d ever been in my whole life, I didn’t really want to die; secondly, even contemplating that sort of thing made me feel guilty about the people I’d leave behind; thirdly, the idea of jumping off a bridge into horrible dirty water sounded both terrifying and unpleasant. And, I mean, I know killing yourself (or the contemplation thereof) isn’t particularly pleasant anyway, but I kind of figured there were easier, less painful ways to do it.

That didn’t stop me regularly going out to that bridge, though, noticing the Samaritans stickers on the railings every time I walked up to its highest point to look out over the water. I never called them — as I say, I knew that I didn’t really want to jump — but they always gave me pause when I saw them. Perhaps they did help, in their own way.

Eventually I settled for getting these musings out of my system with a piece of creative writing. In the short first-person narrative — which was left a little open-ended in case I wanted to expand it into a full-on story at some point — the protagonist, who was very obviously me, walked out to a bridge that was very obviously the Itchen Bridge, tormented by his own despair, and jumped. At the last moment, he was saved from his seemingly inevitable demise by a character I’d created and had my own story in mind for; this particular little narrative was set after that other story, even though, to date, I still haven’t written all of it. In other words, the character who saved me was the character as she was at what I had planned to be the conclusion of her original tale; as it happened, she fit nicely into this little fantasy scenario, though.

But I digress. How does this news story connect to my life? Well, my first thought upon reading the headline of the story on the Daily Echo website was “someone’s probably jumped”. Given that the bridge was re-opened after just ten minutes, though, I wonder whether that was really the case or not; at the moment, it looks pretty much like a non-story, despite its prominent billing on the Daily Echo website. I guess my thought process ran something along the lines of “I wonder if there would have been a story like that on the Daily Echo website if I’d actually given in to my despair and jumped back in those dark days?”

Bleak? Oh, absolutely and definitely. But, well, there you go. That’s me.

2084: Too Soon?

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Too Soon?”

Can anything be funny, or are some things off limits?

There isn’t an easy response to this question, because there are so many variables involved that it’s simply impossible to state with certainty that “X is always okay to joke about, Y is never okay to joke about”.

There are certain topics that are commonly accepted as being “taboo” for joking about, but even these have contexts in which they’re appreciated or even welcomed. Jokes about AIDS, 9/11, rape, cancer, disabilities — all of these are fair game in the right context, so part of it is a matter of knowing your audience and determining whether or not now would be an appropriate time to deliver that zinger you’ve had brewing in your mind for months now. By the same token, of course, one person’s completely inoffensive, “safe” subject matter might be shocking and offensive to another person — this is a particularly hot-potato issue when it comes to anything involving religion.

Just to complicate matters, whether or not a joke is “appropriate” for a particular context isn’t simply a matter of “don’t make jokes using a subject that is personally relevant to the person you’re talking to”, because that ignores the existence of “black” or “gallows” humour, whereby humour is used as a means of coping with difficult, even horrific things. Just because someone has AIDS, say, doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t joke about AIDS with them, though naturally your relationship with that person should be at such a point whereby you’re absolutely sure they won’t mind you making a joke about AIDS with them. To simply make a joke about one of these “taboo” subjects without establishing whether or not your prospective (and perhaps unwitting) audience is okay with you is insensitive, and can leave you looking like a complete asshole.

Aside from this consideration, though, I honestly don’t think that anything is particularly “off-limits” for comedy in general. I personally wouldn’t pepper my own conversation with words like “faggot” and “nigger”, but there are people out there who do, and manage to be genuinely amusing — i.e. not just provoking shock value — in the process. Louis C.K., for example, does a great bit about the words “faggot”, “cunt” and “nigger”, which tend to be regarded as the most awful words in the English language, at least in part due to the baggage that at least two of them carry from history.

And I say that I wouldn’t pepper my own conversation with words like that; I mean I wouldn’t pepper my own conversation with words like that if I was with people that I didn’t feel particularly comfortable being offensive with. When I’m with my closest friends, meanwhile, all bets are off; we hurl the most hideously offensive insults at one another while we’re playing games or just hanging out, but none of us mean any of them, nor do the things we say reflect the way we actually feel about issues such as racism and homophobia — it’s simply something we do to let off steam when we’re around each other. Modern society — particularly these days — is so concerned with the appearance of propriety and not offending anyone that it can actually be quite liberating to just let rip with a string of the most awful, horrible, disgusting things you can think of when you’re in an environment where it’s safe to do so. It is, of course, when you start taking those words seriously or using them in inappropriate contexts that you need to take a bit more of a look at what you’re doing.

So my answer to the question, then? Yes, anything can be funny, given the right context. Nothing is off-limits — or nothing should be off-limits, anyway. Because if you can’t laugh at awful things, the world would be a very depressing place indeed.