Happiness to me is waking up with a terrible hangover. On a Thursday. And knowing you have to be at an important meeting. So you press onward, and you get out of bed. You shave. You shower. You put on the business dress attire that your blacked out self somehow managed to starch and press with impeccable creases the night before.
You drink three cups of coffee and take a cold shower in hopes of looking presentable.
And then, when you’re fifteen minutes away, sitting at a red light, surrounded by mask wearing idiots, wishing and wanting nothing more than one (or three) drinks so you could get back to feeling human again, your phone gives two subtle vibrations letting you know you have an e-mail.
You open that e-mail and find that the meeting has been canceled. A wave of relief washes over you and that relief quickly turns to elation when you realize you’re only three blocks from one of your favorite dark corners.
You walk in, they know you. Your ice cold relief lands on top of the bar top at the same moment you plant yourself in the stool.
The bartender says nothing. Because you know she doesn’t really like you, which means she is deeply in love with you but won’t admit it because she knows you’re better than she is, or ever will be.
You take a sip and immediately feel less horrible, and you know you’re only six-nine more pints away from feeling great.
That’s happiness to me.
You must be the unhappiest guy on the fire. I really hope you get help.
