Happy Place by Emily Henry

Alright, listen up you sorry bastards. This “Happy Place” book? What a load of crap. It’s about some broad named Harriet - a doctor, can you believe it? - and her ex Wyn. Yeah, Wyn. Sounds like a dog’s name if you ask me.

These two idiots are playing house at some fancy cottage in Maine, pretending they’re not still hot for each other. Christ, just fuck and get it over with already.

The whole time they’re moaning about “finding themselves” and what makes ’em happy. You wanna know what happiness is? A bottle of cheap whiskey and forgetting your own name. But these schmucks wouldn’t know that if it bit ’em in the ass.

The author’s got a knack for writing about rich people problems, I’ll give her that. All these characters bitching about their cushy jobs and love lives. Meanwhile, I’m busting my hump at the post office, dealing with morons all day. That’s real life, ya hear?

And don’t get me started on all the crying. Every other page, someone’s bawling their eyes out over some bullshit epiphany. Makes me wanna reach through the pages and slap some sense into ’em.

The food descriptions pissed me off too. These people eat like kings while I’m living off canned beans and bottom-shelf booze. It’s enough to make a man sick.

In the end, everyone gets their happy ending. How fucking convenient. Real life ain’t like that, let me tell you. But I guess that’s why people read this garbage - to escape. Well, I’ve got news for ya: there’s no escaping. So you might as well face reality head-on, preferably with a bottle in hand.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a date with Jim Beam and whatever broad’s desperate enough to take me home tonight. That’s my happy place, and I don’t need no fancy book to tell me otherwise.