I never write anything when I’m happy

I never write anything when I’m happy

It’s funny that for my love of positive psychology, which begins with the idea that maybe people interested in mental health should study mental health, and not exclusively focus on mental illness, I never, ever write when I’m happy. I’m always angry, or at the very least irritated, or sad, or disturbed. These feels make me write.

I guess it’s because there’s nothing more boring than someone else’s happiness. Ughhhh. Yay for you! Happy families are all the same, etc.

I like positive psychology so much I actually read books about it. What is more exciting than the idea that you can, through “mere” habit, alter your baseline level of happiness? Nothing. That’s what. But lately I’ve been reading other books. The first is a history book, Modern Times. A great friend who I want to be a closer friend recommended it to me. After gently poking at me for not reading books. Sorry I have zero attention span or interest in something that’s been available for public consumption for more than a few hours. #sorrynotsorry

But it’s good. The writing is dry but sassy, if that makes sense. And the other book I’m reading, well, it’s a comic book. I LOVE Strangers in Paradise, but I haven’t read a comic book since high school. But, I’m doing this fake girl geek thing right now, with the purple hair and comic book movie and a recent Dr. Who party I invited an amazing girl to after she couldn’t come to the comic book movie, for which I customized a TARDIS dress (no I didn’t sew the whole dress, weirdos. I would have sewn one that actually fit me. I bought that one when I was skinny). So I bought Sex Criminals, and fuck me if it isn’t the best thing in the entire universe.

tardis

As I told the friend who has me reading history, you can pry my funny memoirs about people with fucked-up families from my cold, dead hands. I do read those books, along with blockbuster YA fiction. And the occasional, like one every three years, chick lit book. Like Jennifer Weiner or Gone Girl.

Sex Criminals is that, but with art and sex. God, it’s so good.

Speaking of good things, and friends, I’m at another friend’s place tonight and she puts on this video.

Which is, you know, everything. And I’d literally just suggested another friend fill his bare wall with Metamorphosis of Narcissus that afternoon.

Anyway, I can usually rant about something with a proper outline when I’m pissed. But when I’m happy? Why? Is it the fact that I feel good about my speech for Alt SXSWi? Is it that I’m really happy for my sister on her engagement to a wonderful woman? Is it my beautiful, interesting, hilarious friends?

Earlier I was thinking that I’m at a job which is clearly meant for people with families. But I have a family. I have one that’s bound to me by DNA in Pentagon City, Virginia, Virginia Beach, Virginia, Huntsville, Alabama, Beavercreek, Ohio, Houston, Texas, and Niceville, Florida, at least. And I have one that’s bound to me by nothing more than a willingness to put up with my awkward, foot-in-mouth, failed-to-land joke making, self-absorbed ass. And they give me book recommendations and show me awesome videos and give my jokes mercy laughs. And I’m happy.

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