Lesson 1 (entitled "Kim"): Love cannot be created. Lesson 2 (entitled "Heather"): Love can be destroyed. Lesson 3 (entitled ""): If it takes you the later parts of your youth and the early parts of your adult life to learn Lessons 1 and 2, consider yourself lucky. Some people never learn.

This is the point when I go off onto a rant about my vacation time in Camarillo, and then I cleverly close with some quip about how, in the meantime, people have the gall to complain about their commute. To which I cleverly respond, "Lesson 4: Your commute could be worse." However, you've read that rant before, and I hate using my time there as a weapon I use over and over again, like a curse word that loses its potency. I'm not victimized by it. It happened, and it's done. And besides, you already know Lesson 4.

<delete>. Seriously, shut the fuck up about your commute. Either move or change jobs.

Writing the rant, staring at it, deleting it, then writing a paragraph about that process is thoroughly circular and quite satisfying. Lesson 5: Waste no opportunity to invent a new lesson. Lesson 6: I don't know. Uh. Pudding is delicious.

But the bright screen from my laptop has added weight to my eyelids. Even the most restless spirit will find pause eventually. My long term destiny is unknown. My short term destiny is to grow weary and sleep, and to awaken and resume wondering about my destiny again.