children have a passion for gambling too.

This is not in direct relation to today's earlier post.

I think I'm going to attend a culinary institute after getting my B.A.

Last year, I couldn't cook for shit and had no real interest...but, now I'm completely obsessed.

When presented with cable television, I watch the Food Network. Constantly. Cookbooks are my junk food. Produce markets are my Disney World.

I could pledge allegiance to the Slow Food Movement. I could travel. I can write. And it's something that has such an incredibly basic, sensual, loving purpose.

I can teach my [future] kids.

It's like fixing cars. But tastier.

So, this is what having a purpose in life feels like.

It's online. And it's absurd. I'm not an English major, nor have I ever hoped to be. I hate literature courses, but adore literature.

Everyone in this class wants things to be pretty. We're reading poetry. I guess it's supposed to be pretty to them. This, of course, is complete bullshit.

But I'm a little biased. I make everything non-pretty. It's a talent of the nihilist post-9/11 twenty-something. Or something. Not really.

But I like labor unions.

I like redemption that causes one to rise like a battered phoenix from the rituals of abuse.

I like the term "cock and balls" combined with "endless."

I hate when morality gets in the way.

My professor says I'm too quick to interpret. Maybe I should take more time to think things through.

Maybe.

I guess I'm more glad about this than I initially realized.

Been thinking alot about the nature of "being myself" and the bullshit that tends to flow from these contemplations. Despite the risk of being rantish, I've thought about the following:

- Why aren't breast implants considered mutilation by some Leftish-types who cry out against genital mutilation in Africa? Breast implants=self-esteem?? Um...

- Why is not shaving my legs so threatening? In the grand scheme of things, does my adverse reaction toward nicked knees really mean anything? Doubtful.

- Why is it that "being happy with one's body" usually has to translate into exposure of hip bones and saturation of the color pink? Why can't it be realized that sometimes [God forbid!] jeans are practical for the avoidance of skeeter bites and mulch burn? Tits have their purpose, and I utilize them as I please. Sometimes, that means that others are not graced with their humble graces. Other times mean boobie parade. How selfish.

My treatment of self does not have to turn into a political agenda. My shins are not aligned to the femi-whatzit party U.S.A.

If beauty is pain, then give me a tat of Tony Millionaire's Drinky Crow wearing a Buster Keaton hat. The chemical burns can wait.

In other news, are free societies really really peaceful, Bushie-poo? Discuss.