Happiness is hard work! I've often said how lazy I am, and trying to be happy is pissing me off. Now I have to schedule happy and then follow through with a plan. Who has time for that? And even so, happy is still tainted with that earwaxy aftertaste of grief.
Used to be, all I had to do to be happy was come home. As effortless and spontaneous as a nice fart, and thoroughly more satisfying. Even if I was doing something else, as long as I had that proximity to my wife, I was simultaneously happy. Hell, even just thinking about her when I was at work could make me happier than the sorry excuse for happy I have to scrape together these days.
However, if you had asked me about happy a year ago when my wife was freshly dead, I wouldn't've even known what language you were speaking. For a while, "happy" was entirely removed from my vocabulary, and the fact that I have regained use of the word means I might as well get over my laziness and accept whatever I can get. Eh. I'll do it tomorrow.
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