Let's say you're 15 and you're in a room with a woman you don't know in a hospital you hate and it's just a desk, two chairs, and you. And she asks, "Ever had sex before?"
And you, you're a good Christian boy and you were trained well, brainwashed well, deluded well, and you say, "No."
"Ever tried drugs?"
"No and no."
And then, "Jesus, you need to get out more. When do you plan on living a little?"
Only, you don't. And you never do. The scars on your arm are testiment to some crippling disability you felt was wrong but you never knew it. And, Jesus, when did you plan on dying a little? In two days you lie your way out and you kick the antibiotic air spray off your shoes at the front door.
Fastforward three years and maybe you've lived a little. Maybe you'd answer yes a little. Maybe the good little Christian boy has become a good little philosopher who doesn't subscribe to the same moralistic guidelines as the old, good little Christian boy. And maybe he still cries at night. Maybe he takes two shots of vodka in the mornings before school. Maybe he smokes but not too much. Maybe the strange woman was wrong. Maybe living is just as sad as not living and maybe dying is just as sad as everything else.
And suddenly, you get that you'll never be happy. Whoever said "You can't have too much of a good thing" never had a girlfriend who'd die for you, and a car you didn't have to pay for, and a future that's mapped out like a NASA flight plan, all perfect, and they never sat in a friend's hot tub with 7 other people and discuss why we all respected and loved each other. And every night you soak your pillow with salene and, after a while, the blue dye is gone and there's a big white spot. Your tears have bleached it.
Fast forward 3 months. To after your girlfriend broke up with you. To after you started having casual sex with fake tanned girls in the dressing room of the high-end boutique where you work. To after you contracted STD's by the dozens, and became best friends with the receptionist at Planned Parenthood. To after your little convertible was side swiped by a semi and you're broken and almost dead. To after two shots became four and 5 cigarettes a day became 40 and you're gone, out somewhere, floating on a wheelchair raft, and you can't see 'cause your neck brace is restricting your will to die. And you're more sad than you've ever been before.
So maybe you can have too much of a good thing. So maybe you can have too much of a bad thing. So maybe you'll never be completely happy.
So maybe you already are.