The Love Of Sanity
	Why on earth do we even bother?  So far, in all
my miserable existence, I have not yet encountered a
valid piece of evidence for the existence of love to such 
an extent as has been described by most of the poets I've 
been forced to read.  I love my toaster.  It cooks my
waffles every morning.  But do I wish to engage in sexual
relations with my toaster?  No.  Nor do I wish to wine
and dine my toaster, or demonstrate my affection for it
with a polish and a diamond lever.  I love writing.  I
derive pleasure from it.  But do I dedicate my entire
existence to it?  Have you seen the number of updates
I've missed to my mailing list?  I do not dedicate my
life to my love.
	Now, maybe I'm being my usual intolerably cynical
self.  Maybe I just don't believe in Love.  My entire
life I've been criticized, insulted, dragged into the
mud, and generally kicked in the groin by society because
I'm obviously not like the average male.  I don't lust
after every female I see.  Heck, I don't lust after
/any/ female I see.  Nor do I lust after any male I see,
for those of you idiotic enough to even suggest the idea.
But just because I'm not capable of being physically or
emotionally attracted to another person doesn't mean I'm
not seeing something.  I'm seeing people throwing their
lives away on a whim because someone else decided that
they weren't going to be able to work the latest conflict
out.  I'm seeing people sink into depression for the same
reason.  Do I love my toaster so much that I would have
a fit of depression when it breaks?  Nah, I'll just buy
a new one.  Do I feel a pang of ill humour when I see the
deplorable state the country is falling in?  Yeah, but I
get over it.  So why can't you get out of the clouds and
realize that you don't matter, Don Juan?