Home is Where the Hearth is

'Twas perched upon the trusty ol' inglenook, a glass of stout orange juice wrapped in my hand, that it first struck me. Love, like that famous rose, is love is love is love. And the same applied to life. Of course, I doubt those staunch fellows at the Oxford would immediately leap to their typewriters and publish a revised edition, but nevertheless this definition, on a philosophical level, is enormously beneficial for those existential ninnies trying to expunge contentment from daily life. And if I can get just one of 'em to see the light — or lack thereof — then I'll consider it a thigh-slapping success.

But why impose my own radical philosophical beliefs on others? Why stoop to Mormon-like lows? Well, the answer is this. If I manage to successfully convert a hitherto unconverted bud, it will fill me with a positively self-satisfied filling of my rightness and their wrong, and that, for an ego-fiend like me (I don't mind admitting it), is more than enough. As a bonus, it would give me a feeling of power, too, as it — well, her or he — would be a living demonstration of my influence.

Unfortunately, there is a daunting mound of work that needs to be completed before I can let my mind escape to such fulfilling pursuits, so I won't pursue the issue any further just yet. But I will leave you with this potentially life-changing question: Have you polished your brain lately?