I don’t want to be happy.
There I said it. The cat is out of the bag or the box or wherever it was hiding.
It’s no great mystery. I always feel like the other shoe is waiting to drop and happiness is just putting off the inevitable. So I’ll sit here and write and vent and eat and write some more and try and do my best to not wonder why no one ever calls or asks how I’m doing.
I don’t want to be happy it’s just a burden. And maybe I don’t really mean that, but I am tired of putting in the work with little to no real payoff. So this time I’m going to stick to my guns and if you don’t like it well you can be one more person I’ve let down.
I’m forty six years old and I like to joke that I’m an irascible Care Bear and perhaps it’s true or maybe I’m just an arrested adolescent who refuses to get their shit together because responsibility is such a drag and survival of the fittest proves nothing except that tortoises live for a really long time and the early bird gets the worm and the morning newspaper.
I’m the curmudgeon living under the bridge that all of the children’s books warn you about, but I try to always be an honest broker even when I’m lying to myself and the Queen of Denial has become my best and only trustworthy friend.
Let’s not mince words or put anchovies on our pizza because they’re too damn salty and minced words are only good for haikus and telling someone to fuck off.
People will tell you only the strong survive and that may be true, but I see lots and lots of weak people doing the daily grind and they seem to be doing just fine.
I don’t trust that any of us are really safe. Home invasions scare the crap out of me and so does intimacy with another creative being because people who are good at expressing themselves always seem like they’re the first ones to crack.