Is it possible to be a philosopher when one has no philosophy? In chiseling one's philosophies into cyberspace (if such an etching in the space-time continuum is in-fact at all permanent), the question looms: Do you have an obligation to make a point?

Filling space is not an objective. Outsourcing all of one's angst - while useful in preventing the need to sniff glue, scream incessantly, or call a bad-for-you boy for companionship, in order to relieve some of the stress of everyday life - will probably be more embarrassing than enlightening in future years to come.

"Isn't it true that this phrase you wrote here, 'call a bad-for-you boy for companionship' is a thinly veiled reference to what is colloquially called a 'booty call' or in other words relations of, well, a sexual nature?"

"Yes, Senator, that would be correct..."

I guess it seems that Janet Jackson and I have both blown our chances at becoming attorney general this year. Ah, long hours, bad pay, questionable photo opps. Don't need it.

Have enough trouble with the paparazzi as it is.

Surprising, considering I often feel like my work/gym/dash of sleep here-and-there routine is not exciting enough to merit a plum role on a reality show cast. This is my way of coping with being too old for the "Real World." Damn. Going to have to find another way to million-dollar-fame-over-exposure.

Wizened 26.

Okay, in the interest of making some pithy observations to justify my ramblings (read: to have a point other than the one on the top of my head):

The way to measure the adoration-adulation-appreciation factor of a job --> exactly how much cocktail conversation you can make about what you do in life to pay the bills before your partner in conversation reflexively rolls their eyes. [Tip: Taxidermists & Corporate Attorneys - Accept the truth and just tell people you are a bounty hunter, or even an accountant, anything but...]

The way to measure the hype-hipness-faux high art factor of a life --> whether you have enough material for a half-way motivated, intermittently-competent writer to craft a Lifetime docudrama of the events that made up the cinema-verite of you on this great stage. [More glamorous - a full out VH1 Behind-the-Music show - especially cool and accomplished if you didn't happen to sing *or* present a reasonable facsimile of lipsynching (though it won't count as much if you happened to have a sensational mid-riff).] [Within the realm of acceptability - a 10 minute Dateline segment, especially if Stone Phillips actually introduces it.]

In such a tizzy to be didactic and poignant (is such a combination the first indication of schizophrenia?), I have broken my own cardinal rule. Never make pop culture references in writing. It dates the word. Makes them temporal. Hate that. Feel like it means the author doesn't have anything deeper or more meaningful to say.

Then again, maybe I don't. Not at this juncture.

Will plunge back into faux-depth tomorrow.

For today, abject silliness is the golden rule.

Levity. Laughter. Luck. Lollipops. Simple pleasures abound.