Fuck Happiness

There is a non-corporeal parasite in your brain. It latches onto your thoughts, wriggles into the ears of passersby, and gestates in their minds. Any coherent idea is a new disease, so you weave small bytes of information together in non-sequitur patterns, creating data strain vaccines. You splice the data strains into VHS tapes from the local rental store. But the entire world is already infected, and the only antibody with any hope of destroying the disease is your misery. You know what you must do:

Befriend the Robitussin vulture. Join its cult. Fall in love with a pock-faced Toyota Prius. Shit your pants in front of your neighbor Mrs. Hendrick. Give birth to a daycare facility. Exude Schauss pink purity foam from every pore in your body. Save the world, one puddle of purity foam at a time.