[HUNTERS & GATHERERS] A Short Story About “Happiness”

Sometimes we write stuff we have no outlet for, and then you guys get to read it here. This is a story inspired by a time I had to write an article about “happiness” and nearly had a meltdown while attempting to do so. This is the mediocre outcome of that. 

What is happiness? What the fuck is happiness? What is fucking happiness? Fuck happiness? Fuck. Happiness. Fucking is happiness. She did a sort of simultaneous yawn-cringe-whimper and then tried to play dead with herself, suddenly remembering why she’d been avoiding writing this column, aside from the fact that it only paid fifty dollars and usually earned a disproportionate amount of hate mail from less-than-scholarly readers who were of the opinion that she, the author of this “Women’s Opinion” piece, was a “Rich entitled white girl who thinks she’s better than every one else just because she can afford almond milk lattes from artisanal coffee houses and Lulu Lemon yoga pants.” Their words, not hers.

Admittedly, she did look pretty good in spandex leggings, which were purchased from Target, not Lulu Lemon, by the way. She couldn’t justify spending that much money on clothes that potentially got all sweaty, and that nobody worthwhile even ended up seeing. Every time she got dressed to go to the gym, she’d stand up on the coffee table (the only mirror in her house was in the living room, and it was hung at such a height that she required a boost to see it), and with full-blown-lips-pursed-porn-star-pouty-face, she’d take one look at her suctioned up body all smooth and creaseless like clay fresh out of a kiln. And feeling so validated by the magical lifting and sculpting properties of her compression shorts, she’d conclude that she didn’t actually actively need to workout. Instead, she’d stay home, in said athletic outfit, while attempting to finish an overdue column, while shoveling Trader Joe’s cocoa almond spread into her mouth, always using a fork and never a spoon, which was her clever way of avoiding any conclusive evidence as to how many teaspoons worth of this euphemism for Nutella she’d devoured in the last few hours since she’d been left home alone with nobody around to judge her but the dog.

But back to the column. OH GOD THE COLUMN, she thought, PLEASE DON’T REMIND ME. WHY DID I AGREE TO DO THIS? (She was in a constant capital letter state of mind these days.) And another annoying thing was that people always misspelled her name in the comments section at the bottom of the page below her articles. It was not a difficult name to pronounce, nor could she think of any logical spelling alternatives. Even the Starbucks barista always got it right. She wondered about women who gave fake names to the men behind the counters at coffee shops—was it really because they were tired of the drink mix-ups, or were they the same ladies who took up fake identities to sip sugary cocktails and make mistakes and play the slots and have their slots played without consequences?

Thinking about all this, it was hard not to laugh into her cigarette, nearly gagging on smoke and the flavorless piece of gum she’d forgotten was stored between her cheek and molar. Here she was again, late for the third time this month, and not really in the position to push any more luck or pull any more favors. Her editor was the type of stringent, spin-class-at-the-same-time-every-morning-kind-of-person, who probably kept tabs on her sex life using Google calendar, with different colors designated for different types of cocks and lovers. What shade do you think best articulates, “Anal preferred?” What about “Sometimes leaves his socks on?” She stared at the clock on the stove which was two hours and seven minutes slow, and at the bottle of short stack pancake syrup with it’s plastic seal still on. In three years she’d never cooked her boyfriend breakfast. Not once.

What is happiness? What the fuck is happiness? Fucking is happiness. Who gives a fuck about happiness? Fuck you and your fucking happiness. If you really want to talk about happiness, let’s talk about this—about the moment when you’ve triumphantly plucked that distractingly dark and coarse rogue hair from your chin using only your bare hands, while stuck in rush hour traffic. It was sort of like how she imagined it felt to stalk and kill your prey back in the days of hunters and gatherers. Primal, bloody bliss.