If you’re happy and you know it, you’re complicit

Are you building rockets, composing symphonies, or painting masterpieces? Is your life an unfolding adventure of beauty, wonder, and purpose? Are you—heaven forbid—living with clarity, integrity, and a contagious sense of hope?

Oh, sweetheart. That’s dangerously uplifting. How dare you inspire awe and joy when you personally haven’t cured cancer, rescued orphans, and personally hand-delivered soup to every hungry person on Earth. You are—how do I put this gently?—a genocidal maniac.

Forget that I haven’t left my house since the Obama administration—I see you, person with a life, and I raise you an indignant comment scented with lavender oil. You’re not just creating beauty, you’re actively perpetuating systemic violence.

You see, I care deeply. Like, Titanic-violinist-on-a-sinking-ship level caring. I’ve nobly dedicated my life to shaming others for wasteful spending from the comfort of my $3,000 ergonomic chair—ethically sourced, of course.

Volunteer? Donate? Oh sweetheart, no. I’m far too busy watching Star Wars backwards to analyze gender equity in droid beeps. It’s called “emotional labor,” look it up. And it’s definitely not because I’m spiritually allergic to watching someone else succeed with discipline.

The truth is, wonder is dangerously contagious. If people start feeling joy and aliveness again, they might stop listening to me. And we can’t have that, now can we? So it’s my sacred duty—no, my divine calling—to smother wonder gently, like a well-meaning grandmother pressing a lavender pillow to your face.

Thankfully, I have a curated arsenal of moral grenades, each one designed to sound just like care:

Only a white supremacist would say that.

If we can put a man on the moon, we should be able to end capitalism.

Do you even read the news?

That should shut things down nicely—with compassion, of course.

You see, I used to have dreams, too. But instead of chasing them like a well-adjusted adult, I chose the more enlightened path by weaponizing my bitterness. Now I roam the digital streets like a vigilante in pastel cardigans doing God’s work—slowly dehydrating the world of joy until everyone is as spiritually deprived and deliciously bitter as I am.

Only then can we achieve true equality—a world where no one dares to wonder, dream, build, paint, laugh, or hope unless it’s been pre-approved by me.

So be well, sweetie (but only if you're officially marginalized, otherwise kindly delete yourself). Hugs!