What makes us happy

Nothing ever made Benny happy. It seemed that he had forgotten how to enjoy the little things and the big things always escaped him. He always stated a logical cause behind his misery and a well calculated reason for his dissatisfaction. He complained about petty details, usually nothing that was ever life threatening or seemingly of any consequence. It never bothered me much, but I wondered how he could waste his time on such trivial matters. I also never understood how there could be someone in the world so unnecessarily miserable until I met him.
He complained and whined so much that I asked him once “Benny, what makes you happy?”
He smiled.
“I’ve never really thought about it but I’m glad you asked,” he said. “Happiness itself would make me happy. That’s the obvious answer. I guess it’s a combination of chemicals and feelings and what not. Let’s not get into that. But I know it’s not at the bottom of a bottle and I won’t ever find it in a paycheck. I guess I don’t really know. I know what makes me unhappy. A lot of this makes me unhappy,” he said.
“A lot of what, Benny?”, I asked, confused.
He looked at me like I was stupid.
“I guess if I think about it, complaining. Complaining makes me happy,” he said, wondering if I would be satisfied with his answer.
I stood there confused. I didn’t want to ask him anything else after that.

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