It's easy to deal with the first; you simply feign interest and go along with it; pretend you're happy too, eat up their joy with reckless abandon, humour them, basically. It's fine, it's dandy: Dealing with 'good' is 'good'. It's good. Good.
It's not so easy to deal with the second. You either act concerned, or you are concerned. That's basically your two choices - neither of them are particularly useful to the person feeling the emotion, they only act as catharsis for the sad fuck who has to console. Why were we imbibed with such a limited emotional remit? No one can think outside of a 2d-self-obsessed-how-will-this-affect-me-bullshit pandering box of uselessness; answer me this: When you feel shit, and someone tries to help, how do you feel? Do you think they really care? Or do you suspect them? It's a difficult place to be in; the person might have a vested interest, or they might just be mocking your pain, is your pain even real? Who knows. Fucking minefield.
The third is great; especially over the internet: "Meh", "Yeah, me too." Easy. Whatever you're feeling is irrelevant; you just agree with the dismissal of all emotion and the conversation can move on to safer ground - territory of the weak-hearted and those devoid of basic human interaction.
The fourth and fifth? Excellent; come on round.
The sixth... hmm, a difficult one, a veritable smorgasbord of hollow nothingness, pronouncements of banal sentiments, a nod to grace. Fairly simple to deal with, again, you just go with it, you roll with the vacuous, ignore the realistic. If everyone was melancholy, the world would be a fairly simple place; and we could invent a way to drain all of the colour from the world, thus rendering us forever entombed in an colourless land of simplicity, devoid of painful sights; a beautifully consistent hell.
I hope you've never met anyone who is feeling genuinely macabre; and I am speaking of literal parallels to the etymology of the word. If you've ever met someone who describes themselves as macabre, and is serious, make them seek medical attention, or get the hell out of there, because you'll soon have a knife through your gullet.
Congratulations: You're joyful! Me too.
Reckless? Sweet, let's do something spontaneous and woefully dangerous; wanna go crevasse jumping? Extreme ironing? Fuck that; let's go glacier fucking. Not reckless enough? Let's push a live cow off a motorway bridge - prison: Where the reckless die young.
Depressed? How do you deal with this? What is your opening gambit? There is... there's nothing you can offer that's of any substance; fuck off, it's nothing, why bother? You can't empathise, you can pretend sympathy, and feign indignancy at whatever trouble befell the other participant in the conversation - but you can't do anything. Why were we given an emotion that has no positives? Oh, and before you say that depression is the road to happiness: You're an idiot. Happiness is the road to happiness, depression is a fucking awful truck-stop on the way.
Bored? Me too...
Shocked? Why are you shocked? Show me.
Nonchalant? Why? How ambivalent of you.
And here we go; the nadir of 'un-use', where banality goes to die, and truth perishes in the cold wind of mistrust; the decayed land of emotional wreckage, a desolate landscape of inescapable torture, a place of torment, a place of repetition and cyclical arguments which go nowhere, a place of anger at yourself, anger at the world, anger at life, resentment at everyone and everything; you hate your friends, you hate your family, and by god you hate yourself; you're enmeshed in a purgatory of your own design, one where you can't even see the green anymore, trapped for what feels like eternity; a swirling vortex of depression, medication, hate, anger, tears, violence, and a self-loathing you cannot ever emulate when you're outside of this (which, of course, you never are) - all you've got to cling to is the trite wish that someone, somewhere, gives a flying fuck, and even if that person exists, well, you don't believe it; they don't, you're alone.
And what, God, what, creation, did you deign to allow us for this? Fuck. All.
Emotions? Fuck 'em; can't live with 'em, can't talk to people who live with 'em.
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