Act 1: Daddy Issues and Ghost Therapy

Ghost Dad showed up and told me to “avenge his murder,” but here’s the thing: I’d been in college for years. I’d read all the philosophy. I practically invented “deep thoughts.” So naturally, I asked, “But what is murder? Can we even say for sure Claudius killed Dad? Maybe life’s just a giant chess game, and we’re all pawns.”

That was when Ghost Dad gave me the “seriously, Hamlet?” look, and I realized I should probably focus on the revenge thing. But existential dread is my coping mechanism. Some people stress shop; I soliloquize.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Why doesn’t Hamlet just get on with it?” Well, it’s not that simple. Can we even trust a ghost? And besides, I’ve got thoughts—like, sure, Claudius poisoned him, but what is poison, really? Isn’t life just a slow poison when you think about it?

Yeah, Ghost Dad didn’t love that conversation, so I just nodded and said I’d handle it. Probably.

Act 2: To Be or Not to Be… Wait, Who’s Listening?

Okay, so here’s the deal. Ghost Dad gave me the revenge talk, and I could just go stab Claudius and call it a day, but where’s the fun in that? Instead, I started spiraling into one of my trademark philosophical meltdowns. Next thing you know, I’m pacing around the castle, delivering these dramatic monologues about life and death like I’m auditioning for a Shakespeare in the Park production.

And that’s when I dropped the line: “To be or not to be, that is the question.” Yeah, yeah, it sounds profound, but let’s be real. The real question is “To murder your uncle or not to murder your uncle,” but I’m over here making it existential. Meanwhile, everyone’s looking at me like, “Dude, are you okay?” Spoiler: I am not okay.

Ophelia even caught me in one of these rants, and she gave me this wide-eyed, "What happened to you?" look—which, fair. But honestly, I couldn’t deal with her drama on top of mine. She had her own father issues to sort through, and frankly, she wasn’t helping. So, I told her to go to a nunnery because apparently, I’m amazing at relationship advice. Shockingly, she didn’t take it well.

Act 3: The Play’s the Thing, But Can We Talk About My Uncle’s Face?

By this point, I’d come up with a plan. Instead of, you know, acting, I decided to mess with Claudius’s head a little. I put on a play—nothing subtle, just a nice little drama about a king getting poisoned. Totally random choice, nothing suspicious at all.

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When the actors poured poison into the king’s ear, I watched Claudius’s face like a hawk. And wow, the man looked like he just swallowed a wasp. He bolted out of the room faster than I’d ever seen him move, which, for someone who just lounges around plotting royal takeovers, is impressive.

Of course, everyone else in the court was like, “Wow, Hamlet, what a weird play,” but come on, people! That was practically a confession in dramatic form. If that didn’t scream “guilty,” I don’t know what does. I could’ve ended it right there, but what can I say? I’m a sucker for drawing things out.

Act 4: The Accidental Stabbing Incident (Sorry Not Sorry)

So, Polonius. Poor, poor Polonius. Look, I didn’t mean to stab him, okay? It was an accident. He was lurking behind a curtain, and I thought he was Claudius. In my defense, who hides behind curtains? Was he trying to win Hide-and-Seek Champion of Denmark?

Anyway, I stabbed him, and boom, he was dead. If you were sneaking around a castle full of unstable royals, maybe curtains weren’t the best hiding spot. I thought I was getting rid of Claudius, and instead, I ended up with one very dead royal advisor. Whoops.

Ophelia didn’t take it too well, which, I get it. She had already spiraled a bit after the whole "nunnery" thing, but after her dad died, she completely lost it. People started acting like I was the villain, but let’s be honest: Polonius was no mastermind. I mean, curtains, really?

Act 5: Yorick, My Old Friend (AKA a Skull with Great Timing)

By now, things were getting weird. I was wandering through the graveyard, just trying to clear my head after all the accidental stabbings, when I came across Yorick’s skull. Good ol’ Yorick. We used to hang out when I was a kid. Well, when he was alive, obviously.

Holding his skull, I realized how ridiculous everything had become. It’s like, “Oh, hey Yorick, remember when life was simple? No murder plots, no poisoned swords. You’d laugh at how absurd it’s gotten. But now, look at me—talking to a skull in a graveyard. I’d laugh too, if it wasn’t all so ridiculous.”

I launched into another deep speech about mortality (shocking, I know), but this time, it was different. I wasn’t just being melodramatic. It was like I’d finally realized that life is basically a series of increasingly bizarre events, and now here I am, dueling Laertes with a poisoned sword. So, yeah, things were going great.

The Fencing Match: Because Why Not Throw Poison Into the Mix?

Speaking of Laertes, the guy challenged me to a duel. I was thinking, “Okay, I guess this is happening,” but of course, it wasn’t just any sword fight. It was a poisoned sword fight. Because clearly, regular swords weren’t dramatic enough.

Oh, and let’s not forget the poisoned wine. Mom drank it, because of course she did. Then Laertes stabbed me with the poison sword, but hey, I stabbed him right back. Fair’s fair, right?

In the end, Claudius got what was coming to him—poisoned, stabbed, dead. The works. But by now, I was poisoned too, and I had maybe 30 seconds before I left this world behind.

Hamlet’s Final Thoughts: Could’ve Been Worse, Right?

So yeah, I was dying. Finally. It had been a long day. I managed to squeeze out one last poetic line (I mean, I’m Hamlet, I have to), but mostly I was thinking, “Wow, I really hope people don’t turn this into a five-act tragedy or something. I mean, seriously—who would do that?”

Spoiler: They do.

But listen, don’t buy into the whole “tragic hero” thing. I did what I was supposed to do, eventually. Sure, I took my time, and yeah, maybe half the royal court died, but that’s just how things go around here. If they were smart, they would’ve skipped the poisoned swords and gone for therapy.

In the end, it’s not a tragedy—it’s just a really, really bad family reunion with a lot of unfortunate accidents. If you want a happy ending, you came to the wrong castle. Let’s just say, I’m not so much a tragic hero as I am the guy who finally did his job after procrastinating long enough for everyone else to die first.

P.S. Never trust a goblet of wine. Or your family. Or a curtain. Definitely not a curtain.