And so.

Someone pointed out to me that I only write when I'm pissed, which is . . . true. But in my defense, when happy things are happening, what would you rather do: sit down and write about it? To twist a famous saying, isn't that like dancing about architecture?

To me, words are a heavy medium. They can be made lightweight and fluffy only through an extraordinary amount of effort -- and there's still always the risk of sounding cheesy, inauthentic, strained. I'd rather consume my happiness through music, movies, t.v. shows.

Plus (and maybe this won't make much sense), I think happiness is much more private than sadness. Everyone has insecurities and doubts, and most people wear these on their sleeves. But to really know what makes someone happy is something intimate.

(Also: A small part of me doesn't believe in happiness. It seems like bragging. Stagnancy. Complacency. It seems like not knowing that you should actually be sad. Possibly I'm just infatuated with struggling. My favorite images are those of suffering: Sisyphus rolling his boulder up the hill, Ophelia submerging herself in water (the same image, except replace Ophelia with Virgina Woolf), Zach Braff and Natalie Portman screaming in the pouring rain in the classic scene from Garden State.)

Nevertheless, this is my attempt at writing down happy thoughts: my mother is hands-down the wisest advice-giver I will ever know. And yesterday my roommate and I laughed until four in the morning about things that forced her to clear her browser history. And I keep getting to know amazing people. And I'm getting stronger, better (hearing the first beats of Daft Punk in my head now), more mature -- I've discovered so much about myself this summer. And I'm looking forward to the next few months of my life.

Unbearably gushy. Going to go wash the taste of cheesy sentiments out of my mouth by listening to some Radical Face.