I oftentimes wonder what other 30-year-olds are doing. Are most at home sitting in their recliners in front of the tube? Some of them are married, I'm sure. Is it a better life than this? Many may argue that the life of a 30-year-old *** is about as exciting as watching paint dry. I have to agree. But, there is something mystical about the drying process of paint. It is the same kind of gestalt that one experiences when reading, say, a Web journal. Most life experiences are mundane, not unlike that of a monk.
It is how we color those experiences that determines its value and effervescence. A couple of years ago, I kept a hardcopy journal called the Homer Notebook, aptly named because I pasted Homer Simpson on the front. It chronicled a less subdued lifestyle which included endless partying and babes ... wait a minute ... well, it's all water under the bridge now. The Homer Notebook is gone. It ended up in the recycler when I decided that my call in life was to become a monk. Yet, oddly, this past week I must admit that, in my weakness, I was entertaining the return of that lifestyle, partly because of the falling out that occurred a week and a half ago. Since the reconstruction of my ties with both The ***, my pizza parlor manager and the Bishop Hal Turner, I have learned that their crazy antics with the babes still continue. Since the falling out, I keep my thoughts about these matters to myself. But, hey! I'm a 30-year-old *** who jerks off every night! Who would listen to