If there were some secret mantra or passphrase to happiness, God did not know it. This God thought about as God laid awake in God’s bed, waiting for the alarm snooze to expire. God, who was very little — much littler than you could imagine — curled up under the wool comforter. Prior to the invention of agriculture, all the celestial beings, God included, slept naked, floating, and pulsating for however long they could get away with before the prayer log backed up and needed to be sigh triaged. It was God who first recognized the symbolic and literal comfort of conjuring bedroom furnishings. A bed was a place where God could really think. Just having a door was a game-changer.
Now, before we get into the weeds: It is difficult to transcribe the emotions of an ineffable being onto paper. If happiness for us is abstract then happiness for a cosmic being infinitely so. We are merely stating that happiness is a close approximation of what God is contemplating. As much as an ant relates to a mountain by its shadow, so too do we scrutinize God’s inner orological geography. This is not to say that we cannot glean insight. We observe God here at dawn; we watch God, who delays God’s walk downstairs to the kitchen; we wait on God as God stands on heated linoleum tiles (another ingenious invention, God thought), makes coffee, and turns up the thermostat.
God was anthropic, summoned into existence by Homo sapiens sapiens somewhere around the time we the smelly long-haired bipedal monsters that terrorized all other animals decided to sit down and work out this Seed and Crop business once and for all. Being anthropic, God was a creature of paperwork — say what you will about world history, but take one hundred civilizations and you shall find one hundred different ways to obtain a driver’s license. This has taken a toll on God and made God resentful. God, whose suffered from a form of cosmic arthritis, thought My Hands Just Aren’t What They Used To Be.
God’s kitchen was a work in progress. Where God took interest God made good. The espresso machine was accurate, right down to the frequency at which it constantly broke and the scald marks the steam wand would leave on God’s fingers. The coffee beans, when shaken, made the right sound and, extracted into coffee, tasted simply marvelous. But God’s interest waned in key areas. A passive observer would immediately notice that there were no walls. The cupboards floated gently in the air and, in a pinch, one walk behind them to examine their contents. And, on cold mornings such as these, curious clouds rolled onto the tiles and bumped against God’s legs, demanding to be loved or shooed away. (Clouds were like dogs.) Subconsciously God gently resented walls. God recognized their utility and marveled at the varietals humans produced, but God was proud of the stable ecological feedback loops on Earth and all humans ever wanted to do was move to the coldest areas, build walls, and play video games that simulated being outside.
Happiness is mostly about the past, God decided. God walked God’s cappuccino into the living room, where God tripped on the carpet’s edge and fell face-first into God’s coffee table, which shattered and drove into God’s face a billion pieces glass, and wood, and wood glue.