I’ve been told by others that I complain a lot. Recently, my friend Chloe, also an avid enjoyer of long rants detailing the unfairness of life, told me I complain too much. My late grandmother, the best complainer I knew, fell silent upon hearing my tirades. I can out-complain the best of them.

Truth be told, I don’t trust people who don’t complain. What are they hiding? No one is happy all the time. These people paint on fake smiles as piles of gunk accumulate atop their souls like plaque between tight teeth. Then when they can’t feign happiness anymore, they murder their families and the middle-aged neighbor, wearing a bathrobe, hair still in curlers in mid-day because her husband pays all her living expenses — tells the newscaster that so-and-so was such a nice guy and she never imagined he could be capable of such things.

But you see, we complainers aren’t dangerous. True, you may get sick of hearing about all the sh*t going on in our lives, but at least you know where you stand with us. We don’t let the negativity and melancholy sit inside of us, rotting and festering like the two-year old yogurt in the back of your fridge. By constantly spewing it out, we remain in a continual state of cleansing. And let’s admit it: sometimes complaining just feels pretty damn good.

One of my favorite pastimes is meeting other people who like to complain. We can be openly negative, creating small portals to the abyss wherever we go. Yes, the old saying is true; misery does indeed enjoy company.