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You ever notice how getting a portrait done is like signing up for a temporary ego boost? I recently decided to get one done, and the artist was all like, "I'll capture your essence on canvas." I'm thinking, "Great, maybe my 'essence' will finally convince my mom I've got my life together." So, I'm sitting there trying to look sophisticated, like I've got deep thoughts about life. The artist is squinting at me, holding a brush like some sort of magical wand. At that moment, I realized my essence probably looks more like confusion and a hint of regret.
When he finished, he unveiled the masterpiece. I'm thinking I'll look like a noble philosopher, but I look like a potato that just realized it's not destined for fries. I asked him, "Is this really me?" He said, "It's your inner self." I didn't know whether to be flattered or concerned that my inner self looks like a rejected Muppet.
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The ghostwriter is like my comedy GPS. I give them an idea, and they reroute it through a literary maze. Sometimes they come back with a joke that's so sophisticated; even I don't get it. I'm on stage like, "Hey, folks, you ever ponder the existential crisis of a rubber chicken? No? Just me? Cool." But hey, shoutout to my ghostwriter. They're the unsung heroes of my career. I can't tell if they're enhancing my jokes or just having a good laugh at my expense. Either way, I'm just glad someone finds me funny.
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I recently hired a ghostwriter. Sounds fancy, right? Like, I'm some literary big shot with a mysterious assistant. In reality, it's just a struggling writer who can't afford their own internet connection. So, they're sitting in a dimly lit room, probably haunted by student loan debts, typing away at my jokes. I told them, "Make it relatable." They asked, "How about jokes about dating?" I said, "Sure, but my dating life is so nonexistent; it's more like a historical reenactment." Now, my jokes are like, "Remember when people used to go on dates? Good times.
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So, I take this masterpiece home, and I'm proudly displaying it in my living room. Guests walk in, and they're like, "Who's that?" I proudly announce, "That's the inner me!" They squint at it and go, "Are you sure it's not the inner potato?" I've started calling it my 'self-esteem roller coaster.' Some days, I strut by it, thinking, "I am a work of art!" Other days, I glance, and it's like, "Who invited Mr. Potato Head to the gallery?"
I tried to spice things up by putting it on a rotating pedestal. Now it's not just a confusing portrait; it's a confusing spinning portrait. It's like modern art; you don't get it, but you pretend to appreciate it.
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