I'll take my happiness with a slice of agony, please

[moonshell]

When I first moved in here, a mere two months ago, my mom and I stood (or hunched rather) in the attic that was later to become my home, and she said to me, with detectable uncertainty, "You'll make friends. If not, you'll become a tortured artist. Life always has its options."

She was right. About the first part anyway. I made friends. But then something terrible happened. I started to get happy. Really happy. Really, unproductively happy. Meaning, I haven't done diddley squat since I got here. And I don't mean homework. I've been past not doing homework for years. That's normal. What I mean is I haven't written anything, doodled anything, took pictures of anything this entire quarter. And that gets me worrying a little bit, brings me back to Little Miss Sunshine a little bit, where Steve Carrell tells Paul Dano about Proust's happy years, and how he didn't learn anything from them. Am I missing a little misery in my life? Is this a waste? Are things just too good? All this traveling, is it making me too content?

I can still agonize. Except now the only thing I agonize over is not having anything to agonize about. Geez.