If This Isn't Happiness Then I Don't Know What Is

I have a pretty fucking perfect life in every way. I've had enough to eat for the day, and at night I get to lie down in a soft bed, wrapped in a warm and fuzzy blanket.
I happen to somehow have found a person that I can only cheezily call my soulmate, and on top of that I actually get to also call him my boyfriend. Partner. Pet. Whatever.
I have a head that, at least most of the time, works quite adequately, and a body that I can move exactly as I feel is good. At night I get to shut myself and and think about the wonders of the universe, and pretend to be a tortilla in my wrapped blanket.
I live in a country that I have come to of my own free will, and which I love with all of my cells. I get to do things exactly the way I want, when I want. I get to be who I am, or who I want to be, whatever that is. I can be me, or you, or whoever I want, each day and every day that I am alive. I get to choose. And that is the best of it all: I can make my life exactly as I want it. I get to live each moment with an exuberant joy vibrating through each particle of what constitutes my body, and I get to say whatever stupid or smart things I want with my mouth. I get to think about the things I want to, and to choose exactly the way I want to go.
And that, in itself, is enough for me to be grateful for each day. My own mere existence.
What a motherfucking gift.