Don’t Worry, Be Unhappy

Do you know when a steak tastes best? When it’s the first steak you’ve had in months. If you eat steak every day, it’s just the next steak. When it’s rare and rare (and served with a side of creamy horseradish sauce), it’s fine.

My point is that if you are happy all of the time, you’re not enjoying it. Plus, you’re probably annoying the fuck out of your Facebook friends. It’s not like you need to wallow in misery. Just take some bad with the good.

When I work a four-day stretch, the wine on that fifth day tastes better. Before you break Uncle Philsy’s balls for weeping about a four-day work stretch, keep in mind that those four days include serving sedation in the form of alcoholic beverages to often rude people in an often smoky room. I welcome the misery as muddy puddles I need to walk through to get to my sandy beach.

I’d love to be openly miserable at times, similar to “The Hound” character on Game of Thrones. He gives no fuck, his favorite adjective and noun is “cunt,” and prefers to drink alone. My hero. Well, my hero’s fucking dead now, so that sucks. Back to misery.

Happily married couples are my favorites. He has beer. She has wine. They chat with me about the weather while slipping $20s into the void. Inevitably my marital status comes up.

(By the way, why the hell is it a “marital” status? The natural state of things is single. We all begin that way. It takes all kinds of effort to enter into a marital state. It should be called a relationship status, fuckers.)

But, I digress. When my “status” comes up, my answer is typically, “I’m happily single, thank you.” Shiny happy couples become less happy when hearing my response. They rattle through the reasons for my singleness until I stop them at, “Been there. Done that. I’m just fine.” I mean, I used to mash cake into my face, clip roller skates on my sneakers, and attempt to blow myself. I don’t do those things anymore — certainly not simultaneously. Now, I spray on some cologne and dive into a world of opportunity.

People grow up thinking nice stuff makes them happy. The unhappiest people I know have lots of nice stuff and are stressed beyond words over trying to manage and maintain said stuff. You want to be happy? Have less stuff — except wine. Have lots of fucking wine. Beer, too. I mean, who can have too much tequila? Right? You need lots of that. Oh, and cognac. I like the XO — it’s extra old and best when cold, like me.

There’s no need to surround yourself with unhappy people. That would be depressing. Unhappiness lingers less than depression. Depressed people suck the life out of you. Either find a way to tickle them (shots?) or run away. Unhappy people often wish to vent to happy people. They can’t vent to another unhappy person as they’ll keep trying to one-down the other. If you’re the ventee, beware. Take about ten minutes of that shit, then take a phantom phone call.

So, there. If you’re unhappy, shrug and endure. Happy days are coming, which will be happier if you’re more miserable. Stomp the puddle and get to your beach, bitch.

About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.

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