It is Friday of a three day weekend: could anything be more promising?  I haven't even left the office yet and I already feel filled with happy anticipation of time away from it.  I have no travel plans, in fact very few plans at all, but even that feels like a luxury.  The two to-do items on my list for the weekend: engage in consumerism (i.e. cash in on Labor Day sale and purchase much needed new mattress) and consumption (i.e. take advantage of the Burner exodus and indulge in yummy brunch at an otherwise-overly-crowded mission brunch spot). 

Sublime.

 I find it ironic that being happy doesn't actually make me feel driven to write.  But when I'm upset you can  barely wrest the pen from my hand.  I feel genuinely less interesting when I'm happy, as if it renders me two-dimensional.  It's a bit like Tolstoy's declaration: all happy families are alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.  It seems like unhappiness is more unique and more indicative of intelligence, or at least these are the little feelings about it that sometimes bump around inside my head. 

But for now, at nearly 3pm on a friday of a three day weekend, I plan to enjoy the simple happiness of anticipation.  I'm sure after fighting the labor day crowd over mattresses I'll have deeper thoughts to share. :)