I’m in one of those moods where I want to write something, but I’ve really got nothing to write about (hence the lack of entries in the past week). I attempted e-mail, but after knocking the inbox down by a whopping three e-mails I gave up on the effort to appear witty for people I haven’t seen in ages. I’m now reduced to surfing to pages like Wil Wheaton’s web site. I’m not sure how much lower I can sink.
It’s nights like this where, despite all the great things I have going for me, I sort of wish it was just a bit better. What if instead of sitting in the living room alone I was with my future wife, playing pictionary, trying to figure out how to draw “Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure”? And even if I was with someone else I’m sure I’d be wondering how I could get some time to myself. Why is that? Maybe we’re all born with a “stupid” gene that has the sole purpose of forcing us to do illogical things when life gets comfortable. Considering that life is much less challenging now than it was a hundred years ago, such a gene would be a logical explanation for things like bungee jumping, high divorce rates, tofu, and “freedom” fries. All I’ve got to support the existence of the stupid gene is anecdotal evidence, but anyone who has ever asked for the wheat grass “boost” at Jamba Juice or read any headline involving Aston Kutcher must know what I’m talking about.