Life is good

No it isn't.  That phrase annoys me.  Life isn't good.  Life is a black, dismal swamp; one's journey through which is punctuated by moments of terror.  Witness me spilling Snapple all over my painting the other day in front of a throng of strangers.

To say life is good is one of those brainless tropes -- whatever a trope is -- spouted by girl scouts and optimists.  I'd like to slap their collective face.

That said, I plan on spending part of the day in air-conditioned comfort, then walking to the Brooklyn Museum to see the African guy's bottle-cap tapestries. Then, because the BM sits right on top of the 2 Line, I'm gonna hop on that and ride to the Peter McManus cafe, where I'll share several beers with friends and engage in the usual give and take of one's primary watering hole.

So perhaps now, just for the briefest time, life actually is good.

There.  Was that so hard?
No.  I suppose not.
To be a pleasant person?  To contribute in a positive way to the happiness of others?
No.  I suppose not.
To wish upon a star?  To fly, like a bluejay, up among the chimney tops?
How long is this going to go on?
I can go for quite a while.  We haven't even gotten to quoting lines from "It's a Wonderful Life".
Really?
Really.
Life isn't feeling quite so good anymore.
Ain't that the way.