I’m not supposed to be cheerful. I don’t try to be cheerful.
I’ve spent years cultivating a glum persona fit to outdo Marvin and Eeyore
combined, and look what happens: I get a sudden attack of debilitating cheerfulness.
So what’s gone wrong? Could it be a hormonal imbalance? Is
it some kind of infection? Could I be coming down with manic depression and
starting on the up stroke? Have I been possessed by the ghost of some mediaeval
king’s fool who wants to come back just to find out what corn flakes taste
like? Do I need to start carrying a bell?
And where do I go for help? A doctor? A psychiatrist? An
exorcist? A shaman from the upper reaches of the Orinoco?
And is this condition treatable or one of the remaining
Great Mysteries of Modern Medicine? Do anti-cheerfulness pills exist, or is the
only known cure some foul-tasting plant only found in the remotest corner of Sumatra and guarded day and night by man-eating tigers?
Will I survive it? Is it a life sentence? Will I ever frown
again? Might I be confined to a cheerful person’s colony? Will they write a
book about my condition in sufficient time for me to enjoy some royalties? Does
anybody have any vinegar?
But I do still feel a bit ill and I do still have some
pains, so maybe there’s hope for me yet.
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