You are allowed to be happy.
I got this from a film, since, strangely enough, no one ever told me that.
I guess everyone assumes it’s a given, like being infatuated with actresses
(I’m somewhere between the Tilda Swinton and Charlotte Gainsbourg phases).
But this whole idea seems a bit sketchy—bedridden, if I may say so.
I have long suspected that of all the things that make up
our meticulous, hand-woven everyday lives, nothing matters more to us
than the pursuit of happiness, and yet all we get are bus tickets,
bank statements, cartes du jour, bills supposedly paid on time, detailed itineraries,
and the like. Is that why the happiest person I’ve ever known
was a diener?
hidden pilcrow 