Is it pathetic to make yourself laugh?

Or find your own post funny?  I sincerely hope so.  I'd like to be pathetic for something other than being in my pajamas's all day.  I was reading through all my previous posts (all five of them) and came across this one.  What I find funny is the fact that I am in the same place (bookwise) now that I was then.  Sigh....  

I, Tiffany P., have written a book.  Not surprising to anyone who had the sad privilege of growing up with me.  As a kid I could spend hours creating different stories and fantasy worlds for my brother and I to act out.  (No matter what we played my brother always insisted on being called Steve.  For the life of me I don't know why, especially since his name is Reed.  I tried explaining to him that vampires, monsters, and fairy princess's, even the manly ones, don't go by the name Steve.  Somehow during this explanation Reed would end up crying, or mad, and I would get into trouble.  I don't remember why I was always the one in trouble, but I'm pretty sure it was Steve's fault.  One of the problems with an overactive imagination is that the lines between fantasy and reality become blurred.  If that line is not kept strictly in check, you chance the possibility of ending up with one incredible, albeit talented, liar.  As we all know lie's, like boomerangs and acne, always have a way of coming back to you.  Before you know it you'll find yourself in a crowded room, as the 'expert' football commentator, even if you've never actually watched a football game before in your life.  Not that I ever did that or anything.  

Getting back to my point, I have written myself a novel...or is it a book?  I'm not quite sure what differentiates a novel from a book.  Is it the heaving bosoms?  Which brings me to another point.  What does a bosom look like when it heaves?  To me the word heaves is associated with tummy trauma.  I may be wrong here but that seems like somewhat of a passion killer.  Although, the only reference I have in that department is when someone, (I'm not saying who since I promised Carl I wouldn't use his name), accidentally burped in my mouth.  I did not feel passion.

This book I have written has done nothing but sit and collect dust for the past year.  I've toyed with the idea of trying to get it published, but have never really done anything about it.  Well, this week, I decided that I was going to do it!  I went on-line and got submission guidelines from a few different publishing companies.  One of these companies requires you to fill out an author questionnaire.  I was happily filling it out when I came to a really weird question.  They wanted to know: 'what is your pens name?'  I'll admit, for the thirty or so years I've been around, I've never been asked that.  Never.  Since I'm not a publisher, nor ever been one, I figured they could ask whatever they like.  So I wrote down Bic (my pens name).  Apparently there was no S at the end of pen.  It's amazing the power that one tiny consonant has.  So if you ever see a book written by the author Bic, you'll know who it is.  I don't know how, but something tells me Steve was involved.