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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