In a reversal of form I’m paying dogs to cum in my mouth. And before, with Happiness, I’d had such a nice time. But I’m still hopeful, if inert. I deserve to feel better than this is what accentuates how bad things will get. The problem’s me, but then I am most people, after all: so beautiful and pretty special, it seems. It almost makes me want to learn how to emote. I appreciate art, but these people aren’t happy enough. They’re acting for me like they know they’re going to die. I’m refusing to transmit that shit. I won’t be tied up and pumped full of this film’s fake joy. I’m so happy I’d bore a stranger bent double with loneliness. You couldn’t even pronounce how happy I am. I find everyone in this sequel attractive to the point of gargolyesque. The film is so quiet I check the mute function has not been enabled by mistake. All the actors are oblivious to how little noise euphoria makes. Even telephone conversations are conducted in gestures. My hands say, “Die, harbingers of joy! Die!” But then the lack of all trace of hostility gets to be unnerving. And they eat red meat for good thoughts, and even the animals they end to get it smile at the bolt that kills them. But halfway in there’s a mood change. The children do not hold hands. Skin starts to fall off the necks and faces of the most beatific. All the single women get married, and murder their husbands within two to three minutes. From this point on every doomed relationship is a fresh start. The entire cast break the fourth wall to make me promise to kill myself at the end. It’s for the best they say because reality is shit. If I have any sense of decency I’m to take my family with me, place all my copies of Boy’s Life in a trust fund for depressed animals. Joy has a phone number, but it changes all the time. I’m too lazy to accept we’re all alone. And if there’s any point, why so secretive? I can’t help playing with myself in an effort to be normal. Mass suicide in a Barnes & Noble, and a woman from down the hall at my door. I’m just trying to smell what you’re wearing. Is your pussy all bludgeoned to death? I’m gonna lie down like a bastard. I’m gonna need a fucking face-lift just to wake up. Some schmuck is building sex dolls from macrame in a motel. He’s tall and hunched. His eyes are rotting in hell. Listening’s just needy. The cause of my depression is a fucking spaz. He sleeps over and keeps me awake. Tells me all women stink of tuna and conks out. His relationship with the producer is very kissy-kissy. It’s my fault, really: who talks of love when they’re humping a chair? The deceit, the corruption, it’s all so girlish, so concentration camps in America. When I forget my name, my name is Joy. Happiness 2 is a black hole seen through a peephole. I type that into my computer. That and other wonderful things that go bad and rot. I liquidate because I care. I throw up on my friend’s excuse for a personality because it’s there. Happiness sticks to me like dirt. I need to take a bath. In the refrigerator I’m sorry for the animals. Fuck the cunt of Jesus. Like I don’t like lesbians. I was a thief singing machine washable love songs. I guess I’m lucky I’m so fat and ugly. Why would I make something like that up? Tom Cruise once had a funny feeling and it was horrible, just horrible. Anyway, so then I had to cut up his body, plastic bag the bits. I’ve had the morgue on redial all night. I cannot disguise my disappointment. Life is not my type. I can’t sleep, the sofa has tumours. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow and I can’t breathe. I stayed home forever. The doorbell rings again. You’re so cool, I say. I couldn’t help myself. I jerk off instead of asking for forgiveness. Shhh! Quiet! I am in America! I am free and money is only money. The genitals come washed in baggies. I’m looking where there’s life for something to hope. I’m not laughing. Happiness is a pervert. Happy’s no good.
editor’s note: this post is part of our Sight Unseen series in which people review movies or they have NOT seen or read. Guidelines for submitting to Sight Unseen can be found here