Musings on Happiness
Author: Mercury
Title: Musings on Happiness
Author's Note: This is a short piece of original fiction.
“Are you happy?”
“No.”
It feels weird that I didn’t even have to think about it. Isn’t that the sort of question you should have to think about? Or answer with qualifiers? “Most of the time,” or “Sometimes, but only when I feel like I’ve accomplished something,” or even “Sure, when I’m not mired down by loneliness and self-pity.”
I’m lying on the hardwood floor in my bedroom, staring up at the ceiling. There’s plaster coming down in one spot. I used to worry that I’d get asbestos poisoning from it, especially after that Health and Safety Training course I had to take for work. My eyes trace around the edge where the ceiling meets the walls. The paint job is atrocious, splashes of red marring the white ceiling like gaping wounds. If I didn’t like the colour so much or if I wasn’t so damn lazy, I would just redo it. The deep red is going to be hell for the landlords when I move out. So much for my deposit.
I take a second to remind myself why I’m down here. Right. Sit-ups. Sometimes when I get depressed, exercising helps. I close my eyes and a hot tear escapes, burning a path down my temple and into my hairline. It feels hotter than I remember tears feeling, and I lose myself in the sensation of wet warmth.
“I didn’t think so,” she said. We were nursing beers on the patio of the campus bar. She was sitting across from me, wearing a trendy hat and a lesbian-chic vest. It’s the kind of style I always wished I could pull off, but never quite had the confidence to try. But on her, who was always so effortlessly cool, it just worked.
“It came up the other day, after Raegan and I read that piece of yours.” She was referring to an erotic short story that she’d wanted to read. I was instantly embarrassed that she talked about it afterwards with her girlfriend. “She asked me if you were getting any.”
My cheeks flared red hot.
“Her theory is that you’re either starved for it, or you’ve slept with a LOT of women.”
“Yeah, didn’t you know? I’m a total player.” I was trying to play off my utter mortification. But she just kept going.
“No but seriously, you really seem to know what you’re talking about. That was hot.”
“Um, thanks.” I still didn’t know what she was getting at.
“We sometimes talk about how we want to help you get laid.”
Huh. That was unexpected. Although not the first time one of my friends has tried to “help” me. And that time had almost ended in a threesome, with my guy friend and a bi-curious-when-drunk-but-mostly-straight woman, before I remembered I wasn’t that desperate.
I took a swig of my beer and smiled weakly. "Thanks, but uh, I think I'll be okay."
She was my first requited crush, but back then we were both "straight." I'm pretty sure I came out first, although it was near the same time. By then we'd both moved on. I often wonder, though, how she managed to fall in love so effortlessly once she stopped lying to herself. I guess I always thought it would be that easy, too.
So now I’m lying on my back on the floor. My head is starting to hurt where it’s pressed against the hard wood. I turn my head to relieve the pressure and notice a tuft of cat hair right next to my face. Man this place is a mess.
It occurs to me that no one would notice if I just stayed like this for the entire weekend. Except maybe the cat. She’d probably pee on the couch once her food ran out, to let me know how completely unimpressed she was. I glance over at her. She’s sitting at the edge of the bed, looking down at me with those big green eyes. At least she needs me.
A dull ache begins to throb at my temples. I always get massive headaches whenever I cry. I sit up, ready to take some Advil and sit back at my desk, maybe get some work done.
But those words continue to echo through my battered mind.
“Are you happy?”
~~~
Title: Musings on Happiness
Author's Note: This is a short piece of original fiction.
“Are you happy?”
“No.”
It feels weird that I didn’t even have to think about it. Isn’t that the sort of question you should have to think about? Or answer with qualifiers? “Most of the time,” or “Sometimes, but only when I feel like I’ve accomplished something,” or even “Sure, when I’m not mired down by loneliness and self-pity.”
I’m lying on the hardwood floor in my bedroom, staring up at the ceiling. There’s plaster coming down in one spot. I used to worry that I’d get asbestos poisoning from it, especially after that Health and Safety Training course I had to take for work. My eyes trace around the edge where the ceiling meets the walls. The paint job is atrocious, splashes of red marring the white ceiling like gaping wounds. If I didn’t like the colour so much or if I wasn’t so damn lazy, I would just redo it. The deep red is going to be hell for the landlords when I move out. So much for my deposit.
I take a second to remind myself why I’m down here. Right. Sit-ups. Sometimes when I get depressed, exercising helps. I close my eyes and a hot tear escapes, burning a path down my temple and into my hairline. It feels hotter than I remember tears feeling, and I lose myself in the sensation of wet warmth.
“I didn’t think so,” she said. We were nursing beers on the patio of the campus bar. She was sitting across from me, wearing a trendy hat and a lesbian-chic vest. It’s the kind of style I always wished I could pull off, but never quite had the confidence to try. But on her, who was always so effortlessly cool, it just worked.
“It came up the other day, after Raegan and I read that piece of yours.” She was referring to an erotic short story that she’d wanted to read. I was instantly embarrassed that she talked about it afterwards with her girlfriend. “She asked me if you were getting any.”
My cheeks flared red hot.
“Her theory is that you’re either starved for it, or you’ve slept with a LOT of women.”
“Yeah, didn’t you know? I’m a total player.” I was trying to play off my utter mortification. But she just kept going.
“No but seriously, you really seem to know what you’re talking about. That was hot.”
“Um, thanks.” I still didn’t know what she was getting at.
“We sometimes talk about how we want to help you get laid.”
Huh. That was unexpected. Although not the first time one of my friends has tried to “help” me. And that time had almost ended in a threesome, with my guy friend and a bi-curious-when-drunk-but-mostly-straight woman, before I remembered I wasn’t that desperate.
I took a swig of my beer and smiled weakly. "Thanks, but uh, I think I'll be okay."
She was my first requited crush, but back then we were both "straight." I'm pretty sure I came out first, although it was near the same time. By then we'd both moved on. I often wonder, though, how she managed to fall in love so effortlessly once she stopped lying to herself. I guess I always thought it would be that easy, too.
So now I’m lying on my back on the floor. My head is starting to hurt where it’s pressed against the hard wood. I turn my head to relieve the pressure and notice a tuft of cat hair right next to my face. Man this place is a mess.
It occurs to me that no one would notice if I just stayed like this for the entire weekend. Except maybe the cat. She’d probably pee on the couch once her food ran out, to let me know how completely unimpressed she was. I glance over at her. She’s sitting at the edge of the bed, looking down at me with those big green eyes. At least she needs me.
A dull ache begins to throb at my temples. I always get massive headaches whenever I cry. I sit up, ready to take some Advil and sit back at my desk, maybe get some work done.
But those words continue to echo through my battered mind.
“Are you happy?”
~~~