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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