Most folks, though certainly not all, would likely agree that as a species, we're pretty close to the top of the food chain. Certainly we're the species that seems to have the highest degree of self-awareness. This is not to say, however, that we are uniformly brilliant; some of us, regrettably, are a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

I fail the fast-food test myself, mostly because, at least according to some, I'm being held prisoner by my own penchant for romantic nonsense; were I a more sensible soul, I would presumably eschew this sort of sappiness and turn my efforts towards something productive — like, say, a batch file that surreptitiously installs "FORMAT C:" in someone's StartUp folder.

Of course, the complainers have the hard facts on their side. I protest that I'm simply trying to take a reasonable approach to the matter, but inevitably my arguments come off as either self-righteous or whiny; apparently I'm supposed to suppress whatever desires I may have and act, er, sensibly. And there's some truth to that, I suppose. If the budget is never going to permit Mercedes ownership, I really can't justify pestering the nearest Benz vendor to allow me so much as a test drive. Most of my desires are not easily realizable, if at all, and I know it, and worse yet, everyone else knows it.

Against this sort of onslaught, I haven't much defense. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, I would truly like to believe that there is actually someone for me after all. If this be a delusion — and there's no reason on earth to think that it isn't — would it be that difficult to let me hold on to it a little bit longer?

The Vent

1 November 1999

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 Copyright © 1999 by Charles G. Hill