I have always wondered about those people who are eternally happy; the upbeat and motivated problem-solvers of the world. I wonder if secretly they aren’t hiding the same dark and desperate urges, or if they are seriously cheerful to the bone. They count themselves lucky to be killing themselves for a job to meet an arbitrary deadline set for them by a boss whose own goals are hidden behind a veneer of professional etiquette.
The best writers have always come from the ranks of the hopeless. Happy people are content and have no reason to question themselves or the world. They have little interesting to say; unless you are looking for shallow solutions to problems you may or may not have in the first place. They write self-help books and stories about characters nobody could possibly ever care about. They’re go-getters who already think they have all the answers because they never ask the real questions.
You can gather all of the happy books in the world written by the soulless zombies of the cheerful apocalypse, pile them way up high, and light the whole goddamned mess on fire. That would make me happy.