I am the happiness of this world. I am the giver of life and the provider of bread. I’ve fulfilled my duties and completed my conquest. There’s nothing left to say, much less to give. I am the happiness of this world and I’ve come back to give a little bit back to you. Returning from China took longer than I expected. I went over there last fall to get my own sense of the protests in Hong Kong, knowing that zero media sources were reporting on it correctly or fairly. China isn’t exactly the friendliest to the avian community, so it’s always dicey (heh) whenever we go over there or to Asia. My husband and I have business interests on the mainland and occasional face time is necessary to maintain those investments. Copper? Lithium? Geranium ore? It could be in our portfolio.
I am the happiness of this world. Do you need evidence? With pleasure: I encouraged entrepreneurs in [REDACTED] to be more frugal in their investments, and that they should share their [REDACTED] when they have enough for the group. This led to a surprising amount of fatalities, but such are the perils of heroin production. But I didn’t become happy in Afghanistan—I mean, [REDACTED]. My mother taught me never to judge “our lesser angels,” as she called them—addicts—and I try. But it’s hard. How can I not think of my husband when I see a young man with everything going for him throwing it all away on a five-dinar bag of horse. It’s terrible. I hate seeing all those young men and women nodding out in alleyways and passed out on sidewalks, dying of overdoses without any Narcan in sight.
I am the happiness of this world, because I save people. Rules I can’t get into prevent me from explicating my community involvement further, so I’ll just say this: it gets better. And by “it,” I mean everything: your life, your hair, your attitude, your emotions, your look, your weight, your mindset, your cloaca. Once you hit 330, all of those anxieties typical of the Terrible 200s evaporate. I have the wisdom of 330 years, and the energy and optimism of an 80-year-old Monica. I feel great! I’ll let you in on our little secret: infant blood and regular sacrifices to Moloch (Kidding.) But really: Rooster and I have been blessed with such impossibly good health because of a man we met in Venice ages ago. That’s a tale for another time, one you’ll all like to know, as it answers many frequently asked, lingering questions that have still gone unanswered: “How can they talk?” “How can you read?” “How can you drive a car?” “How can you fire a gun?” “How are you still alive?”
I am the happiness of this world—that’s how. My education in Venice didn’t involve psychoanalysis, but I can tell you this: we were there for tuberculosis outbreaks. We know when an incompetent government’s lying to us. The Trump administration is panicking because now that they’ve downplayed the likelihood of a coronavirus pandemic and discouraged people from stocking up on supplies, they’re completely fucked in the election should the virus become a global disaster. My family will be self-quarantining up in New England, as we’re the most likely targets of the pandemic—not the disease itself, but the fear mongering and what it does to human society… this confusion and panic always leads to violence, and animals are the first to go.
I thought we were past the days of such disgusting monikers as “Avian flu.” Can you imagine the scandal if they called a disease originating in Israel the “Jew flu”? Maybe now you see what I mean.
I am the happiness of this world, and that means being prepared and safe. I don’t advise going outside for more than 15 minutes for the next six months, if possible. I know not everyone is financially solvent enough to buy a three-weeks’ supply of food and water today, but I’ll just say that maybe they have someone to blame for that—themselves. They must’ve done something wrong. I’ve worked hard all my life and what do I have? A lot: a Peloton bike, a loving husband (who has problems but we work through them), a platform, a voice, and a fucking stunning cloaca. What’s not to be happy about?
—Follow Monica Quibbits on Twitter: @MonicaQuibbits