If you have already purchased this book, you may be disappointed to learn that my Ph.D. is not in any of the social sciences, but rather in computer science, a particularly unsocial science. However, decades of being pent up in a computer lab with no companionship besides the reliable hum of a cooling fan have given me the opportunity to reflect on life and my lack thereof.

One day, I solicited help from my salacious silicon friend's artificially intelligent expert system to re-furbish the priorities of life and gain the power of a truly objective perspective, with the goal in mind to set this wisdom down in writing and share it with humanity. However, the computer could only come up with, "Semantic concepts are strictly subjective interpretations of syntactic constraints and predicted outcome." Useless. Therefore, in order to write this book, I had to make it all up.

To this end, I have meticulously crafted this book according to complex mathematical formulae to have just the right balance of thematic contiguousness, meta-level insights, and vulgar jokes about my buttcrack.

What is true happiness, anyway? Is it only moments of elation that are intrinsically temporary? Or is its potential always present, accessible simply by putting your hand down your pants? Last month I had a moment that I thought was happiness, but it turned out to be a miscalculation by my accountant.

Sometimes I think I am only truly happy when receiving a foot massage or watching a Bruce Willis fliick. The rule of thumb is to put yourself in a situation that theoretically elicits happiness, and pray to God you can stop worrying about tomorrow's board meeting.

Relationships are not what will make you happy. Beware the abominable link between intimacy and exclusive sexual rights. This is what will cause you to spend your remaining 23,170,048 minutes in tedious dissatisfaction. O, the ranges, variations, and shades of dissatisfaction. I sulk in discontent over passion's inevitable demise. I rage in ire disgust of a first date gone hellishly wrong. I raise my fists to heaven when I discover the mail-order service has sent me "Sister Act II" instead of "Saucy Sensations".

Pressure to be happy always backfires. "You should be happy, your spouse is a billionaire and has a great ass!" "I realize all that, but there is no emotional intimacy." "You wouldn't know intimacy if it bit you on the ass! Ow - quit it! Mom!"

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