Swing low

I am starting to wonder if I am a misery chick. You know, like Daria. Or like people think Daria is. Basically, it means someone who is miserable all the time: no matter what, they see the dark storm cloud that comes with every silver lining. I was thinking this because people at school would ask how my summer was. Miss Manners have two pieces of advice on how to respond to this question: lie, I mean give a noncommittal blandishment to casual acquaintances, or tell the truth to your friends but try not to wallow in it. So when people asked, “How was your summer?” I answered them according to Miss Manners’ advice. I would reply either “too short” (blandishment) or “bad” (truth). Then they would ask why it was bad, because for some inexplicable reason some people actually care about me, and I would give them the Reader’s Digest version: eye problems, getting fucked (figuratively) by my employer, and other minutiae. Then I started to feel bad because I had nothing positive to say, and berated myself for being such a negative Nelly all the time because the only form of exercise I get (other than wanking) is beating myself up. I must like it because I do it so often (beating myself up, I mean; I KNOW I like wanking, but that is a different blog entry). This constant haranguing started me to thinking: am I only “happy” when I am miserable? I read a Caroline Hax column (before anyone says anything about that, let me say this: I read the cereal box because it is in front of me. I am an omni-whatever-the-latin-root-for-“reading”-is-vore.) about just that topic. She said that she thought misery chicks were unhappy all the time because they were afraid of taking the chance to be happy. And, just like pleated pants, I realized this was not very flattering on me. So, I am going to be better, dammit!