My Happy Place
By Evan Waite
Between work and family and the stresses of modern life, sometimes it feels like you can’t even breathe. But whenever the outside world seems like too much I just close my eyes and go to my happy place, where it never rains and the air smells like daisies.
In my happy place, you can sing in the fields! And dance in the clouds! And eat ice cream for every meal! Granted, there’s been a recent uptick in obesity because of the carefree diet. And the jelly-bean fountains certainly don’t help. Tooth decay is rampant, but who cares? You can be whatever you want to be!
You can ride unicorns through the cool night air. Their manes flutter in the wind, fine as angel hair. Full disclosure: the unicorns do get aggressive when they hear loud noises, so you’ll want to steer clear of the butterscotch waterfall. Those feral fuckers will bite if not Tased.
Around here, no one says mean or hurtful things. They just write their insults on boxing gloves and punch your face.
The ocean in my happy place shimmers bright and blue, at least until high tide, when the garbage patch rolls in. Then it’s all diapers and energy-drink cans. Since the seagulls immediately swoop in and snag all the chicken bones, the syphilitic pirates have resorted to eating plastic six-pack rings. One of them handcuffed my wrist to my ankle.
In my happy place, there’s no war, just armed conflicts. No racism, just racist dog whistles. And the celebrity perverts make lame art that’s honestly missable.
Unlike in the world of sheeple, who are so obsessed with buying this and owning that, money doesn’t matter in my happy place. There is no rich and no poor. Everyone just pays for what they need through sex. It’s very illegal, so everyone is either in jail or about to be sentenced. No one with a record can get hired, so unemployment is always at a hundred per cent. It’s not a perfect system, but it is psychologically devastating.
Also, every song skips except “Cotton Eye Joe.”
Keeping a happy place happy requires vigilance, so a series of military checkpoints have been built along the border to monitor smiles. Those unable to provide proof of elation are taken into custody until they seem jolly. Non-rosy-cheek-havers forfeit their rights. Fleeing is not an option because the face-tatted mercenaries manning the guard towers are trained to shoot grumps on sight.
I’ve met God in my happy place. She is pure light and fills me with the divine understanding that there is good in the world. Though, if I’m being honest, absorbing Her cosmic energy is kind of tough with all those unicorns snapping at my genitals. I’ve had to start wearing MC Hammer pants so the beasts think my crotch is lower.
Modern life is full of anxiety. That’s why I need my happy place—somewhere I can go to escape the daily grind which doesn’t have any magical woodland elves. Then again, the grind also doesn’t have all the bear traps that have been set to control the soaring elf population. The elves have been screwing in my hot-air balloon and are starting to form throuples! Their moans of pleasure rain down like the coital grunts of Zeus.
I had a different happy place once, and it was perfect. Children’s laughter rang out throughout the meadows. Neighbors helped neighbors. Everyone had a personal, jovial pet walrus who could tap-dance like Fred Astaire. But then something occurred to me. This is my happy place. Why should everyone get his or her own walrus? Why aren’t the taffy farmers signing a loyalty oath to me? And why aren’t I taller? I’m talking, like, six feet eight.
So I took action. I waged war, wrought destruction, and burned down every tree that made me feel small. I brought hell upon my happy place until I was its lone sovereign. And then, as I stood panting atop the heap of carnage, it dawned on me: This is exhausting. I could use a place to get away from it all—to relax.
A new happy place.
One with free Wi-Fi. Which my current one has, but it’s slow as fuck.