When I was your age, television was called books

I am, as Mike Myers' character in So I Married an Axe-Murderer would say: confus-ed. I just turned 25, and I'm beginning to feel the pressure to have my life figured out. I say "beginning to," but I've really been feeling the pressure for quite some time now. Sometimes I wish I didn't aspire to do something creative as a career. Because of my lofty creative goals, I always feel guilty when I am doing anything other than writing or researching--which is most of the time. I mean, should I really have to feel guilty for watching 6 hours of trashy reality TV a day? Come on, I'm a normal human being. Normal human beings relax by eating pints of ice cream and watching episode after episode of Dr. 90210. That's what we do. I feel like there are two roads for me. On one road is a job that isn't related to my creative goals whatsoever but would, theoretically, allow me plenty of time and a lot of flexibility (and a decent amount of money) to pursue those goals. On the other road is a job that is at least marginally related to my creative goals, but would take up most of my free time (or would occupy my mind more during the supposedly "free" hours in which I would theoretically be pursuing my main creative objective) and wouldn't pay as well. It feels like road number one is the obvious choice, but part of me feels like taking that road means I'm giving up on my dreams. Is that ridiculous? Anyway, I gotta go. Newport Harbor: The Real O.C. is on, and that's my top priority right now. You understand.

I swim as fast and as hard as I can, for as long as I can. And the sea takes the rest

Reasons why Kevin Costner is a perfect speciman of human man-meat:

He has a nice voice
He is comfortingly regular
He has gorgeous tan skin
He doesn't apologize for having acted in "The Postman"
He says what needs to be said, even when it's hard to say
He is a natural leader
He is slim
He is smart and sporty
He is as at home on the sea as he is on the ballfield
He will die for you
He is aging gracefully
He is a warrior

Start out depressed, everything comes as a pleasant surprise

I'm just gonna come right out and say it: Treasure Island grocery store is my home away from home. I go there most nights after work, really for only one reason: to buy dinner. Some nights I get a turkey drumstick from the hot food counter. The kindly black man who waits on me there knows that I do take gravy with my mashed potatoes, and he knows not to give me too much. He knows I eat alone in my room, and he probably figures I do it while weeping and watching Lifetime: Television for Women. He's not wrong. On nights when I don't feel like eating myself into permanent spinsterhood, I visit the salad bar, where the young Hispanic boy who works the produce section stares at me as I shake the juice off of my black olives before delicately placing them in the plastic container that houses my veg-tastic delights. I believe he hates me. I believe he hates me for always taking time to dig around and get the lettuce that isn't on top of the heap, the tomatoes that aren't mushy and white in the middle, the hard-boiled eggs that aren't the slightest shade of green. He taps his foot, and twirls the tie of his apron around his index finger, the way some girls will twirl their hair when they're bored or just plain mad at the world. Fuck you world, they say (usually not aloud). Ha! I'll show you by twirling my hair! At Treasure Island, I also cross paths with a middle-aged Asian gentleman, whom I believe is the general manager of the store. He usually rings me up. He wears thick, thick glasses and he has acne despite being at least forty years old, and I like him very much. I like him because once when I was buying donuts, he gave me a deal because I was buying them at the end of the day. Donuts are supposed to be 75 cents each, but he gave me two donuts for 50 cents! That's a whole dollar off. A whole dollar! After that, we were bosom buddies (and still are to this day). I believe that the Asian gentleman is engaged to the pear-shaped girl who works the counter at the front of the store, which serves no purpose whatsoever other than being a place that a random customer can come up to and ask the time or inquire about when the hell they're going to put out more free samples (soon, I hope). It wouldn't be weird at all if I got invited to Asian gentleman and pear-shaped's wedding. I think that when not if I get my invite in the mail (along with, I hope, some sort of buttery biscuit or something!) all will be right with the world. All will be exactly as it should be. Certainly we're a mismatched family at Treasure Island, but we are a happy family.

I can do anything, I'm the chief of police

Thanks for coming 'round to read The Humane Egoist. Those of you who know me know that The Humane Egoist is the title of an online newsletter I used to send out. I started writing it while I was working a hellish job as a marketing assistant for a radio station on the campus of Eastern Michigan University. I always love a job where my main duty is running to Taco Bell to pick up a stack of tacos for my boss. Mmm. Wouldn't you love to eat your way through a stack of tacos right now? Would you eat them one by one or would you just shove your face in and try to crunch through a bunch at once? I think eating would be a lot more fun if people weren't so concerned about having food smeared across their faces. Because really, what's the big deal? So I have some Grade-D ground beef on my cheeks and lips. So what? What of it? Anyway, I hope some of my loyal readers will be back to tune in to my hi-jinks again. Now I'm living in Chicago. Living the high life, that's right. Sometimes I order TWO sandwiches at lunch. That's how rich (and chubby) I am. Sometimes I order one sandwich, but TWO sodas. I have a key chain with REAL diamonds on it. One day I said to myself: where would be the best place to put your diamonds, Liz? Then I said (out loud, to myself): "I've got two words for you Liz--KEY CHAIN." Then I nodded and smiled to myself and gave myself a congratulatory pat on the back for being so clever. Now every time I open the door I remember how rich I am. Anyway, not all that much has changed with me personally since I wrote the last installment of The Humane Egoist. I'm still confused and angry much of the time. I still have a soft spot for slugs and pretty much anything else slimy. I still really like candy. The long and short of it is that I have a lot to say, so why not say it out loud and in public? I hope you enjoy this. I really do.