Happiness Is Overrated. Go Cubs.

Dear Hearts,

This is gonna be short because I don’t want to eat at 9 p.m.

In my last post, I talked about figuring out what I want to do.

Well, tonight I want to eat, watch The Black List and color. Then maybe some Boardwalk Empire.

First, please God and all the Saints and Guardian Angels—help the Cubs win tonight. Not for me. I could give a shit. But, I love G-Pa and he deserves to see the Cubs win before he dies.

For God sake, he used to pick up, during prohibition, the empty whiskey bottles at the bottom of the stands for a free ticket. He deserves to see the Cubs win!

One The Catholic Channel XM today, I heard someone talking about how people don’t necessarily know when they are suffering because they block it out with screens, and activities, drugs, alcohol, and a million other things. Literally.

I am not gonna go Super-Catholic on you. But, without suffering, we would not appreciate the good times. Even a cigarette and coffee can be a joy in my day. (Yes, three is a lot of suffering that we need to end—but that’s another post.)

Our society obsesses with “Are You Happy?” “Be Happy!”

That’s a lot of pressure. Sometimes it’s okay to acknowledge your suffering. Yes, a lot of people have it worse, but a lot of people have it better too.

If God is calling us all to be saints by attaining Heaven, then suffering is part of the deal. Not as a punishment—but as a course of life. We learn from the fucked up times, don’t we?

What if the question wasn’t “Are You Happy?” but “Are You Living A Compassionate Life?”

That would change the whole deal.

Isn't that what Christ asks us to do?

I don’t like feeling the way I do. Clinical depression, anxiety, and PTSD. It will never leave. But, I know a lot more about what I am capable of than four years ago. Saint Jude promises there's light...

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

PS: Jed—I love the new look: black suit, cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat. Very Doc Holliday. You’re my Huckleberry.

PPS: Not even 500 words. Who the fuck said I had to write 500 words a night? That is just more rules I impose on myself, causing suffering, that does not need to be. 438.  That’s what you get.