The Importance of Being A Little Bit Rubbish
'Thanks for not being too much of a success, Dad.' May seem like a weird thing to say to one's own dad, but seriously, I think it is one of the crucial cogs of one's own happiness.
I am not saying that having a total dropout for a father is going to render a person exuberantly delighted with their lot, but at least it sets the bar somewhat on the low side. You see, the converse is actually very difficult for the vast majority of us to swallow. Or at least swallow with any sense of contentment.
Blissful euphoria may really only be in the realms of complete fantasy, never to be actually attained, lest we then, having actually witnessed the supposed highs, find that the drudgery of daily tribulations are actually quite tedious. What I mean is, getting all the way up there leaves us open to a big, fat face-plant style psychological bungee jump, without the cord attached. Is that even something that most of us can recover from? I think the short answer is a definite NO, since the public ability to deal with anything that isn't remotely standard lies somewhere between absolute zero and the sum that I would be willing to pay a doorstepping gypsy to have a look at my roof to 'see if I might needs sum new felt, like'.
So the real question should really be whether this state of plentiful pleasure is even good for us? Well, who really knows? Has anyone ever admitted to being in such a state of mind and not been condemned by the general powers-that-be (read miserable psychiatrists) to living a life surrounded by similarly labile emotives?
Anyway, we have digressed. The main point to all this was to explore happiness and its myriad facets.
Am I happy? Yes.
Am I delirious? Sometimes.
Am I a little bit mad? Definitely.
Is my dad Bill Gates? Nope.
And that must have made a difference, after all.



