When I realize that there’s other people that are more miserable than me, that makes me happy.

In truth, I don’t know what happiness is.

I assume that it’s a state of contentment. This, as opposed to a constant state of euphoria. Presumably, many people would think that waking up with a blowjob while mainlining pure heroin then driving your Ferrari 95mph through a school zone would be peak happiness. But I don’t know, if someone lived a true carefree existence, that would breed some degree of resentment. Contentment wouldn’t necessarily only entail “being happy” all of the time, but it would be a place where daily struggles don’t cause a sense of existential dread.

Work, family, belonging, or having a sense of purpose in general, would be necessary to achieve this state of happiness.

Contrary to what you might believe about me, I actually have a good career, a loving family, and live in a place that I don’t necessarily love, but it doesn’t annoy the shit out of me. It wasn’t always this way, I just sort of stumbled into it (one of the amazing things that happen when you stop drinking). I’m not “happy” all of the time, but I would say that I’m in a general state of contentment.

My ideal state of pure bliss would be to own a cottage in the English countryside, wear a tweed jacket and monocle, and say “lovely” and “jolly good” all of the time. It’s not fame and fortune. I’m convinced that the only person that has found fame and fortune rewarding is Mark Wahlberg. Everyone else resents it.

So the secret to being happy is to be British.


Bad news: the blog’s gone downhill and I’m powerless to do anything about it.

Good news: I’ve updated the website format.

As for the quality of content, sorry. I’ve been going through writer’s block since the beginning of September. Don’t know what to do about it. I’m gonna write till something hits. Maybe a change in format will polish this turd up.

So the shit posts will keep flowing. Oh well 🤷‍♂️

put an end to my misery

I’m always tired.

So, so tired.

I was playing skee ball at Chuck E Cheese when Ed started hootin and hollerin.

“Don’t make me drop your ass kid! I’m packing my 9mm,” he said. Ed was getting the tables ran on him by a 2nd grader.

“Pipe down Ed,” I said.

“This is bullshit!”

I went back to minding my own business when a father confronted Ed.

“I will shove this skee ball right up your ass if you talk to me like that again!” Ed said to the man.

“Say, let’s settle down and have another beer Ed,” I said.

So we went back to our table, enjoyed some pizza, and watched the animatronics. Then Ed pulled out a pipe.

“Wanna do some crack?”

I reluctantly agreed, but it turned me into a beast at air hockey.

“Aren’t you guys too old to be at a Chuck E Cheese?” some mom asked us.

“Shut the fuck up bitch!” Ed replied as he threw the hockey pusher at her face.

The manager told us to leave.

“The problem with today’s kids is that no one beats the shit out of them anymore!” Ed yelled at the top of his lungs.

He then went on stage and pissed all over Munch’s Make Believe Band.

“Fuck this place!” Ed said. “We’re going to Dave & Busters!”