Happiness Writes White

There's the rare moment when this blog, in all its semi-public and ranteriffic glory, and my own personal writings share something, but I think I've found it. I think it's the same problem that Jeff (who is much better than I am at this, you should check him out) is having, I think, and that is: sad and snarky is much more entertaining than happy and fulfilled. The diary of my youth, and the irratic personal writing I do now, rarely contain the following entry:

Dear Diary,
Everything is good.
Your pal,
N

No! It is a gnashing of the teeth, that is. Sure, there's the random love-soaked tome, but it's not without the requisite "Whhhhhhhhy? Whhhhhhy doesn't he love meeeeeeeeeeeee?", or there's the entries about moving into my new house when I dumped my Asshat ex, but that was peppered with the absolute insecurity about moving to the lower Haight with strangers and hippies. Which was well founded by the way, because they turned out to be crackheads and pornographers.

But the good stuff is... boring. It's good, and happy and personal and alla that, but unless you're sharing news, or generally flaunting praise on someone else... it... serves no purpose to me. I'm good. I'm always good. I'm a generally happy and well-disposed person, and I guess I take for granted that one could possibly percieve, from what I've written here, that I am an angsty and cynical harpee. Which is how I try to think of myself, really, but people have told me that I'm just a sweet sucker. Dammit. I think that because I know me, reasonably well, I know that I have a baseline of content, the lengthy middle of the Bell Curve that is my personality, and the saddest moments, or the happiest for that matter, are the smaller sloping edges. This is what I share with you, dear reader (hi!), because it interests me. And the things that make me truely happy in my everyday blah life--- finding a great recipe, a cup of coffee and a smoke, redisovering that I have beer in my fridge, a good movie--- are just plain dull.

So don't worry about me. I'm doin' juuuust fine.

Except for my never-ending pusuit of Sean. Oh, Sean. Whhhhhhhhy? Whhhhhhy doesn't he love meeeeeeeeeeeee?