Happiness SuCkS.


A mere rant.

 If you haven't been keeping up with my past endeavors, and you actually have a life, first off, congratulations, you prick. But also, kudos to you. Thank you. I get my kicks from the simple idea of being just a blip, a mere speck of dust to most, if not all of you. So, in the spirit of keeping the good vibes flowing and the banter alive, I will throw the same on your side. I couldn't care less about you either. You like that, don't you? You naughty minx.

Are you still here? The crudity of my nature intrigues you, I see. Well, I'm flattered. Expect a photo of my sixth toe in your email soon. It's a vulnerability tribute to you, my beloved concubines. Aside from my polydactyly, let me unveil some other interesting tidbits about my wacky journey through life. At the ripe age of eight, I heroically decapitated a frog with my bare hands. Metaphorically speaking, the frog might represent a pesky fly or maybe a friend that was a tad bit annoying. Fast forward to fifth grade, where I fell in love with science and early-onset arthritis (shoutout Grandma!) which we will all be experiencing in the near future. Then there was eighth grade where I was, well, thirteen. That was pretty much the highlight of that year. And in eleventh grade, I learned about God. That was dope. That guy is cool. Kinda.

Unbeknownst to you, because of these little quirky experiences, I was happy, and whenever I felt a little gloom, a swift kick to my sibling's shin would set me right back on track. Now, I am not one to reminisce on childhood nostalgia, nor do I think it's one's greatest form of being. You learn about Vaseline and how to actually apply it on your face like a pro as an adult. That's a skill I wouldn't trade for anything. And kids are just annoying; don't be them if you can. However, the downside of growing up is that it's a relentless process; it keeps happening year after year, and in no time, you will be a 12 year old tax-paying citizen with saggy tits and an ass that won't quit. Now that I have phrased it that way, it doesn't sound all bad until you realize that you're actually 45, and your ass, due to medical reasons, should actually consider quitting. Grow up, will ya?

Despite its multiple drawbacks, the thing about growing up that irks me the most is this incessant quest, this need to be more, to have more, to arouse more. Due to this constant search, happiness as an adult has become an ideal that can never be attained. A marketing scheme at its finest. '10 Steps to Happiness' (which might unironically be the title of a bestselling book somewhere) is really just guidelines for a skincare routine you have never needed. I have fallen for this trap. Regrettably, I will even do you one better: I have gargled the latest CeraVe lotion down my throat. Spoiler alert (quite literally): it doesn't fix anything. You will just have a well-hydrated colon at most.

Happiness being marketed in such a way where you will only attain it in the peaks of your being is just wrong. Having fallen for this trap, I am now stuck in a dystopian hell where my small accomplishments feel like crumbs because I am always chasing the next big thing. As a result, no matter what I have done, the persistent emptiness and void that I feel scares me. It is as though I am destined to be the light-skinned hole (like black hole, get it?) that has surpassed time and space, eternally craving more, never satisfied.

Even if you're not like me and you're actually content with where you are in life, good for you. But don't you dare say so and proudly voice those feelings out loud because you will be hit with the constant barrage of 'What did you do? Do you think this is enough? Shouldn't you want more and strive for greatness?' Questions. You will be shamed into success, my guy.

So there you have it. Happiness sucks because acquiring it isn't fun anymore. The process is now tainted with a cascade of chores, a to-do list that you can never complete. And even if you could, there is no guarantee of reaching the promised land.

You can't be happy about the little things in life, like, I don't know, having food and clean water, because, well, you're not a gazillionaire yet. You aren't in a twelve-story mansion bathing in the bloods of virgins, you bum. And oh my god, is that a pimple on your forehead, ma'am? Eww.

Now, how should I end this? Group hug? Maybe?

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