So, I’ve found out that there’s been research carried out by a psychologist at the University of Arizona as to why I’m happy most of the time: It’s because I engage in deep, existential, philosophical, and witty banter.
You won’t catch me leaning over my neighbour’s fence gabbing on about the weather anymore, since that disguises how unhappy I really am.
Talking about the weather. It’s been a glorious March here in Maine — except for the last couple of cold days. And there was even a slime of snow this morning as if some snow slug came and went. And it’s flippin cold. What the fuck?
See, that just goes to prove that, yes, small talk does lead to morbidity and misery.
And it causes me real mental anguish and Weltschmerz when I have to pretend to be convivial to people who I’d much rather kick in the polite conversation.
Give me lashings and beatings of cerebral discussions and I’m as happy as the Marquis de Sade in a room full of ripe fruit bursting at the flesh.
Start chatting me up with a conversation about the Red Sox and how wearing pajamas makes them sportsmen par excellence, and I’ll get so unhappy, you’ll swear my mascot is a black dog.
Whereas if you ask me if I ever ponder the relationship between Thanatos and Eros, my tongue will be working overtime and I’ll shoot a metaphysical golden arrow through my heart until you will see tears of joy running down my flushed cheeks.
Try telling me that there’s a bean supper coming up or that you saw the first robin of spring and you’ll have to physically wrangle away the razor blade from my wrist.
But you’ll have my ear and the next chapter in my book if you start to discuss Snufkin, the peripatetic musician of the Moomin stories, and how he is a symbol for man’s unfaithful nature.
And I’ll be weeping into my cups if you ever start to talk to me about the enchantments of work.
But I’ll be as high as a lotus-eater if you whisper just one word about subatomic particles and narrative fiction having the same strong attraction.
And don’t even get me started on gossiping. I’ll be bouncing off the bonnet of your van if you inflame my ear with gossip. Especially if it’s about a friend’s wife who’s hired an escort girl to trap her husband as the infidel of infidelity, and then you go on to say that you know a neighbour who puts on burlesque down among her runner beans and keeps a cabinet of obscene objects in her shed.