Little Miss Sunshine!

I've given up.
No more pursuing Happiness. It's a bloody myth, just like low-cal chocolate, good muslim husbands and the lottery, in a very George Orwell's 1984 kind of way.
Prozac, Xanax, Zoloft are best-selling drugs, despite the well-known side-effects. They are anti-depressants, if you didn't know (in which case, I'm from the Milky Way, and you are??)

So I know what I'm going to do with my life now. I'm going to synthesize the happy hormone. Endorphins. And market it in a Digene pink tube, with smileys and hearts and rainbows on it.
Endorphins are released in the body when you fall in love, eat chocolate, walk a mile etc.
So unless I keep falling/staying in Love, or having chocolate fed through a nasogastric tube, I'm not going to be happy. I could always pray (I really should). Or exercise (that is so happening).

My life isn't as Dickensian as I portray it. I have a tendency to make a satirical drama out of everything, because I belong to a breed of the nouveau-riche who have little else to do. I wish.

For all the irritating Pollyannas and Eternal Optimists, making others happy does not make you happy. It doesn't. Neither does Money. Trust me blindly on this one.

Like I always say, never pity the dead. It's the Living you should pity. Who'd have the patience to go through Life if not for the hope of death?
What's the point of doing Medicine and becoming a posh Poes Garden (equivalent of Park Avenue) doctor if not to save lives, you don't ask?
Death with dignity and without excruciating pain is much better than living like a vegetable. Even if giving false hope and delaying "death" is going to earn your hospital mega-bucks.

Okay, I'm done being morbid. My excuse? I'm just your average coming-of-age, culture-clash 20-year-old with an identity crisis to boot. I'll wear black, pierce an appendage, and pop in Prozac. But if chocolate-box scenes and happy music really exist, I want that. Someday. Without Endorphins.