I’m miserable.
Or so I’ve been told, at least.
It is tragic that there are people who apparently have no hope and are so hollow inside that they will spend huge amounts of money to spread their misery to others (”Atheist group spreads word on billboards,” Nov. 12). I guess it makes them feel better to make others just as miserable as they are.
In all fairness, I really didn’t know I was miserable until I read Mr. Wallace’s letter.
All these years I’ve lived in ignorance and happiness without the undue burden of accommodating the unknown whims of some invisible person in the clouds. I suppose I must now stop reading, writing, hiking, running, mountain climbing, photography, and discard my significant other, because all of those things have been making me happy, and thereby ruining my misery.








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