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.
Charles Cicirella
11/22/15
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