Most people would rather be certain they're miserable than risk being happy.
Happy is dangerous. Happy raises the bar. Happy sets a person up for disappointment and loss. Happy causes them to live in complete fear of the day when happy disappears, leaving them with nothing but the knowledge that what used to be was so much better than what is. No, it's much easier to be contentedly miserable because, hey, at least it can't get any worse!
I'd rather be dangerously happy than certainly miserable. I don't see why anyone would disagree, but you'd be surprised how in the minority I seem to be on this one.
I wonder where my blog stamina went. I'm going to work my way back to where I used to be. Sort of like running. My apartment is two blocks away from one end of the street and about eight away from the other; and in two separate conversations with two people who have come to know me fairly well, when I mentioned I was able to make it to the end of the street without breaking my stride, each of them asked which end of the street I was referring to.
The far away end, for crying out loud. The far away end.
I'm supposed to be Swiffering my room right now. Supposed to be. I bought new Swiffer things and everything, because earlier this week I murdered a sizable insect who scurried across the floor as if from nowhere and caused me to panic, because with my luck, it was assuredly the most fertile and prosperous bug on earth.
There is also a chance I could have caught a tapeworm from Maurice le chien, on the off chance he had a flea that somehow made its way into my mouth. I really hope that didn't happen.
