We as Humans

Happy.

I want to write something happy. I'd love to tell you about the day it was cold and rainy and sunny and every thing felt fine because whether I believe it or not half the time, it happened. Yet every time I go to write, it's discontent, cynical, and empty. I'd love to tell you all about roses and earl grey tea among the garden of things that make the dimple on my right cheek become deeper than I'll ever be, but maybe I'm just not a happy person. I don't like that conclusion because generally things are alright and I'm staying afloat, even if it's just because of the amount of salt in the water I sometimes drown in. I don't really want to be an optimist but I'm falling down the rabbit hole of pessimism and I don't know if teenage hormones or reality pushed me. I don't think its the nature of people to be happy even most of the time, but a sarcastic and first-world problem ridden presence is a wet blanket regardless of how you slice it. I don't like being like this and I don't like who I am but that's just a problem to add to the list, along with physical insecurities and social woes. I don't care about your problems. Or maybe I do the first and second time and I do care about your genuine worries but if every time I ask you how your day was you complain then I will stop asking you because I don't feel like pretending to listen. I don't want people to pretend to listen to me. I want people to ask me to talk more because they genuinely want to hear. But I'm tired of the sound of my own voice. Let's add that to the list of complaints that make me an unhappy person.

Three posts in one day to make up for none in ten days. This is my apology.