So what happened was one day I found myself in Bryant Park, New York City (a city that by the way prides itself with being like the world capital of cynics but is as soft as apple mush) listening to the author of yet another self-help book about how to be happy. She had done tons of research, she said, and her profound advice to us on this day ranged from “get more sleep” to “try to exercise a little”. True enough, but come on! People were taking notes.

And I thought: Why is it that the happiness discourse has been completely taken over by self-help-literature-stupidity? Why do the people who try to teach us about happiness always seem so incredibly LAME? Does being happy mean you have to be this mindless human cornucopia of empty chipperness and sleep advice? What about those who us who actually like our cynical, grouchy selves? Is there no way to talk about happiness for us?

This is my attempt to unite the happy cynic with healthy happiness. It’s based on stuff that makes me happy without melting my brain.