One thing I’ve learned after spending too many damned years on this excessively decorated pile of interstellar rubble is that I am perfectly content to make acquaintance, and humor, elemental misery.
There are people like me, we are out here. Our threshold for unhappiness is disgustingly, frighteningly high. We drive strays who wander into our field of discontent to the edge of insanity, or if that doesn’t work out, self-immolation.
This is hard for those of us who are attached, for the day inevitably dawns when I, in the throes of a good dose of excruciating misery, feel I must share the pain. Dish out the bleakness so we can all experience it in one poisonous rapture of cathartic emotional diarrhea. This is the danger of one like me who lists contentedly on the damnation waves of spiritual agony. The one we love becomes so distraught by our dark effusion that we ruin a good day or week.
Immune to despair, we happily, but sadly, twaddle along looking for new victims who wear their happiness like a protective cloak.