The Pursuit of unHappiness

Hallo Welt!

It's been a short while since I've indulged my scribing self on this minature soapbox. Last night my dearest and only younger sister put together my ikea desk chair like a doting boyfriend. I always tell her she is the favored daughter beacuse she knows how to do everything. So now I have a wonderful little desk ANd chair from which to type away on my shitty laptop.

Unfortunatley I have been at a slight loss about what to blog aboot. It's not like I have a shortage of thought process, like the other day I saw a girl i moderately dislike longboarding to class on campus. I wanted to text my sister something like blah blah blah is longboarding to class and looks fat. And then I was going to make a hilairous joke immediately after, saying something like "[blah blah blah looks fat]...says the gal who just finished a bag of harvest cheddar sunchips in three minutes!"

It was probably more like ten minutes, but...anyway since I had made a self deprecating quip, it negated (to me, in my mind at least) the harshness of my bitchy ass text message. I felt better, more clever. And then I thought, hm, is self deprecation the get-out-of-guilt-free-card for shit talking? Hey, that'd make a cute and silly blog.

However, I never sent the text message because I was too lazy to get my phone out of my book bag, so that whole scenario never happened. But, see! STUFF COMES TO ME ALL THE TIME.

The problem ala mode is: I usually try to write about the things that make me unhappy. Everything unhappy, at least in my poor and under-developed voice, is infinetly more interesting and usually funnier. So what does one crazy-haired, pseudo blogger do when I can no longer conjure up something that pisses me off or humiliates me enough to put it out there for my large (cough) group of dedicated and sexy readers to adore or sneer at?



I...die



But honestly, I can't imagine detailing the way my boyfriend gently loosens the grip of our hand hold so that our palms don't become clammy...and it being interesting or relevant. I also think it's redundant to explain why I get excited when I bound up the stairs in my huge college-y cliffside house, hearing the chatter, laughter, and bong rip from upstairs. Or the things my mother begins to divulge at our truly passionate dinner in a deliciously cheesy restaurant.

Im terrified happiness makes one complacent. The one thing that is comforting is that happiness always seems to be relatively unstable. The way the world seems to work is you get built up, only to take a vaudville fall. I am anticipating mine.

So until I do something embarassing, my word document entitled "the grievances of long distance" starts to overflow, or i finally eat my words, I guess I will just drone on about blogger's bloc.

Upstairs my roommates are playing shewolf. haha.