Why are there so many books on happiness and yet less actual happiness?
I like this piece by Amy Bloom in the NYT. I find reading reviews makes me happy.Men make me happy of they are humorous.Women do because they converse well.And peace and quiet make me happy.
I’m so happy
Not to be a baby in a nappy.
I feel so blue
When I miss you
I don’t want a lover.
Too much bother.
I like to be alone
Just me and my comb.
Shakespeare was a poet
I know it
And I am not
I quite forgot
As I felt gay
All of today
I’ll be sad
Or maybe mad
as rotation
is the human situation
OMG!
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