My new desire of the day. To drive in my mid-sized sedan with pleasant ergonomics down a busy street at night having an argument about my penis size with my wife, specifically compared to her ex-boyfriends. This, after an over priced nouvelle dinner. After this I want to have a long and irritating discussion about how the love and affection in the relationship is gone, and I�m not as attentive as I used to be.

Afterwards I�ll go to bed but not actually to sleep and sit there and lament about how much I hate my job, my wife, my over-priced apartment with a great view, and the fact that I actually sprayed cologne on my balls.

This is as much as saying, I want to stab splintering wooden spoons into my eyes while groping for the spinning blades of my garbage disposal with my scrotum.

It�s amazing, people actually marvel at why our suicide rate is so high. I marvel at how it is so low.

Call me an idealist.

My ancestors were all miserable, war upon war, great depressions and all that other shit that tends to make the next meal on the table more of an unknown then I�ve ever witnessed. My generation, however, is college educated, well paid, owning a multitude of little gadgets designed to take the tedium out of everyday life, instead introducing an all too surreal new form of tedium, and we�re still miserable. At least my ancestors had reasons for being miserable.

It�s an interesting conundrum, to be sure, not only are we faced with unhappiness and being generally miserable at nearly every point in our existence, we�re also faced with the sobering reality that we have no real reason to be miserable.

Toe nail clippings and yogurt,

-G