That is the question. This here article claims there are special antidepressant properties in soil (a.k.a. dirt) that make you happy. But let's get real for a sec. I'm not returning to agrarian times until the zombies come, I can't even keep a cactus alive for three days, and I can barely tell lettuce and cabbage apart when they're in the ground.
So what I really want to know is, will FILTH make me happy?
Because there is plenty--PUH-LENTY--of filth in my life to go around. There's my daughter's bedroom closet, in which resides all manner of toy food (fortunately not real food) and American Girl Dolls and the occasional stray lollipop despite a strict no-food-outside-the-kitchen-area prohibition for this very reason. (This is the third of only three household rules, after no screen time during the week and no exposed anus at the dinner table. We run a very tight ship).
Where is the study that says the floor of my car will give me a runner's high? Like, I want to stare at those wet gum wrappers, pipe cleaners, moldy socks, and banana peels and just soak it all in and deadass feel a surge of joy course through my body.
Can that happen? Because it would be cheaper and healthier than drugs or alcohol.
Also, if filth turned out to have curative properties, it would sort of kill two birds with one stone. (Not that I would ever kill a bird, mind you. I only eat my chicken in neatly-cut slices-on-Caesar-salad-form).
Metaphorical bird one would be fighting with my kids about cleaning up their shit/doing laundry/doing dishes. That would be over, because their filth would suddenly become the source of my happiness. For example, instead of gagging and telling them to put their last three bites of cold eggs in the garbage disposal, I'd suddenly feel like Eddie Vedder just followed me on twitter and then DM'd me to tell me I'm hilarious.
Bird two would be the aforementioned drugs and alcohol currently necessary to maintain a calm perspective on the filth. Suddenly, I'd have all this money back in my pocket, because all my mental health needs and buzzes could be found on Isaac's dresser in an old box of pull-ups now serving as a house for pine cones. True joy could be unearthed in this weird corner of our living room where Isaac's frog lives and Paige has fifteen different plastic bags lined up with different types of garbage in them that I'm not allowed to throw away.
And what would I do with the savings? Why, buy more shit to filth up my house and make me even happier, of course!
Suddenly I would no longer have conflict over my filthy house and car, nor would I need to numb all my senses to cope with the filth, because the FILTH ITSELF would deliver happy juice straight into my bloodstream!
Please, someone tell me this study extends to filth and not just dirt. Or, at the very least, shit.