DEAD HAPPY

Dead Happy, eh? Well, let’s just say it’s not about skipping toward the grave with a bouquet of daisies, but there’s a certain grim delight in the whole charade of it. There’s this undeniable sense of relief in knowing the grind is nearly over. You spend your life in this endless hustle—working, worrying, pushing toward some nebulous finish line you’ve been told matters. The punchline of life is that death isn’t some monstrous shadow waiting to devour you; it’s more like the old friend who’s been lurking in the corner of the pub all night, waiting for you to finish your pint. And when you finally meet its gaze, there’s no terror—just a wry smirk, as if to say, “Well, about time, mate.” It’s the grand anti-climax, the relief that comes from realizing the game is rigged, always was, and there’s no shame in stepping off the field. So, you might as well laugh at the absurdity of it all, give death a cheeky nod, and stroll off into the night, dead happy.