Bo Burnham: Make Happy ★★★★★

What is happiness? What is comedy? What is art? Am I happy? Is happiness something that can be measured? Why do we care if we make other people happy? Is life and existence worth anything if we can't be or make other people happy? Am I really able to consider myself a writer if I'm too afraid to share things I've written with other people? If I'm barely able to write weird little poems or bad jokes or shit that's way too personal that I pass off as "reviews" of movies on an app no one I know has heard of? If I feel this way, does it matter how you answer? If I can't feel comfortable expressing emotion in front of other people, was there a point in watching this with anyone? Why do I feel like I let down the person who introduced me to this because I reacted weird? Why do I care? Do my friends care about me? Why did I ask that? Why do I feel so alone when I'm not? Why do I feel so numb when I am?  Why am I doing this to myself? Why am I going around in circles and asking questions that don't have answers? Why do I think so much? Why do I not feel love, and why do I feel like I deserve to? Will I ever be able to live comfortably as a woman? What if it turns out I don't want to? Do you think I'm weird, reading this? Is anyone reading this? Am I screaming into a void? Why would I write all of these as questions when I don't expect anyone, myself included, to answer?
Am I happy?

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