I was working on my middle-grade novel and laughing my ass off. I mean, there was some funny crap flying onto that computer screen. So I'm laughing and laughing and I’m thinking I’ve got to share this with Hubs. He’ll think it’s funny, too.
So, I track him down (in front of TV watching some kind of game that involves a brown ball shaped like an egg) and read him a passage. There’s no laugh.
"Now wait. Now wait. Here's another."
I read him another passage. Still no laugh. Meanwhile, I’m crackin’ up just trying to get through the passages because I think they’re hilarious.
Finally, I said to him, "You don’t think this is funny, do you?”
“Obviously not as funny as you do."
“What’s not funny about pimples and farts?"
(Very pregnant pause here)
“OK, don’t answer that."
That’s when I realized there was something wrong with me. Something terribly, terribly wrong with me. And being the hypochondriac that I am, I've looked it up in medical journals and websites and I can’t seem to find this ailment anywhere. So, I came up with my own name: Buffyitis.
Symptoms: Acts like a kid. Thinks like a kid. Basically, lacks the ability to grow up and think like a sane adult.
Cure: There's no cure for Buffyitis. Doctors are still working on it, but they see little hope.
Guess I'm just stuck with this. You, too! (Smiles)