Happiness

is a warm gun, mama

Quitting smoking, day 6: I haven't bloody smoked, OK?

As my one of my recent post was quite gloomy – one could, perhaps, even argue that it was the mother of gloom – I've decided, primarily as a test of my own writing ability, to, this time, blog about, Foucault forbid, happiness. Why? Because I am happy. There; I said it! Well, actually, I didn't say it per se, but I wrote it.

I've realised lately that that word, happiness, is a word of great significance to me. I've always longed for it, but as much as I've longed for it, I've also feared it. The way I see it, if you're happy, truly happy, that's it; you've reached the top, and from the top you can't get any higher. And you can't stay on top forever; that seems to be against the laws of physics. But there's a loophole in this potentially pessimistic point of view: the same intangible rules that seems to inhibit eternal top-staying, also seem to prevent one from actually reaching the top. And by that I mean the top-top; the top from where one cannot climb any higher; the mother of tops (I wouldn't mind a hot top right now... Ha.). Anyway, I am digressing hideously – this is supposed to be a post about how happy I am. God. Why is happiness so difficult? I sense a subconscious fear...

Anyway, I'll be damned (mind you: according to my mother, I've been damned for years) if I finish this post without getting to the god-damned point. I'm happy. Happyhappyhappy. High as a kite. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. I walk on sunshine. There's coke in my coffee and E in my tea. Everything is bloody peachy, OK? Hmm, sweetie? Mummy is happy, Saffy!

I work out almost every day. And no: no bloody cardio – I do three primal workouts and one sprint a week. In between, I do as much yoga as I bloody feel like and I also bloody walk a lot. I meditate twice a day. I eat healthy. I don't smoke and there's no way in hell I'm starting again. In fact, at the risk of sounding a tad hoity-toity, I knew ad initio that I was going to succeed this time; I'm just that fabulous. Un-bloody-stopable. I also study a lot. I ace all my tests. Blablabla. I do everything right – you get the point. Ugh. Writing about happiness can be REALLY tedious. Who wants to read about happy people? How happy is metamorphosis? How light of a reading is Anna Karenina?

All happy families are alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way – Leo Tolstoy

What I want to say is this: I'm happy and everything is bloody peachy. I love life. I love everything in it, especially red wine and sex with hot Chinese boys (even though that's been a rare commodity lately. Shame...).

That's all.