I lie in wait, my hunger for inspiration equal to that of a hyena prowling the savannah for a morsel of flesh. The need to create overwhelms me, a torturous urge that makes it nearly impossible to complete my daily tasks as a medical supply sales representative. Raucous laughter trickles out of the office break room. I sigh, rubbing my temples. These unrefined cretins know nothing of true humor — unlike myself. For I am a humorist.

I race home in my 1996 Toyota Camry, staggering to the kitchen table and unsheathing the mightiest of weapons: a fresh Pilot G2 Retractable Gel Roller Pen. Trembling, I trace the nib along the top line of a college-ruled legal pad. The virgin ink shimmers, immortalizing my words.

Last month, I accumulated hundreds of Shutterfly rewards points and ordered a small stack of business cards. On the front, my full name is printed in a tasteful serif. On the back, one word: HUMORIST.

No phone number. No email address. For the humorist cannot be beckoned like a cheap wordsmith for hire. The humorist must be subconsciously summoned by the promise of invigorating content. It is a calling — nay, an obligation — unlike any other. It often jolts me from my slumber, prompting me to examine my NPR news app in hopes of sparking the perfect timely submission that will surely propel me into a life of riches, ease, and matching Eileen Fisher leisure sets.

My process is unassuming, for the humorist lives a humble, solitary life. I queue up several cases of Mountain Dew Code Red alongside aerosol cans of cheese. I then remove every article of clothing, presenting my pale, hairless stomach as an offering to Seshat, the ancient Egyptian goddess of wisdom. I begin my first draft while sitting nude in a partially inflated children’s pool, which serves as my lavatory throughout the creative process. I cannot take the time to walk to my carpeted bathroom, for I am a humorist.

The news cycle is my manna bread, a gift of biblical proportions. I consume presidential addresses and celebrity gossip with equal vigor. My takes? They are as hot as hellfire and as cold as a Narnian winter. They have been honed by years of quiet observation and frantic free writing. I cannot rest for fear of missing an opportunity to wield my wit, my God-given saber. I long to lay down my weary load, but the impatient voices of internet content consumers cry out to me, desperate for a taste of a truly sparkling comedic premise.

Such is my burden. Such is my commitment to my craft. For I am a humorist.