Want.

In response to any environment of extraordinary gratification and pampering, this insatiable-infant part of me will simply adjust its desires upward until it once again levels out at its homeostasis of terrible dissatisfaction. - David Foster Wallace, "Shipping Out"

I've been contemplating a cruise, so I read Mr. Wallace's article again in hopes of Getting a Grip. A few things happened after that.

1) I decided that cruise ships aren't my bag, baby.
2) I was reminded of the horrible truth in the passage containing the quote above.
3) I remembered that I like writing. Like, a lot.

But bear with me. I'm rusty. I've been writing emails and contracts and nothing much else for almost a year now. I'm bound to be clumsy.

Not that it matters. This is tumbleweed zone.

I could catch no one in particular up on what's been happening in my life, but now doesn't seem like the time for that. Because really I'm just obsessing over this idea of insatiability and am hoping this miniscule act of yelling into the void will help me rest tonight.

Anymore, all my mind seems able to settle on is a single question:

Is this it?

I ask this question about 8 times a day and then I feel stupid, wondering if I'm actually expecting an answer and if so, from whom?

Then I spend about 10 minutes to 8 hours wondering what God would sound like if she chimed in on the subject. A whisper? A door slamming? Waves crashing? A bird flying into a window? 2 Chainz?

I have no idea. So for all I know the question has already been answered.

But it doesn't matter. Because of that stupid truth above. I get answers and set goals all of the time and I always end up right back where I started, emotionally speaking. Want, want, want.

The best and the brightest. Only ever always that.

The idea of a cruise ship seemed appealing to me because I thought for a second I could lose all accountability at sea. Shake things up a bit. Out in the middle of nowhere without land in sight has to change a person's priorities, right?

But a couple of pages into "Shipping Out" I realized that it would probably be dangerous for me. An unreasonable sense of despair comes easily enough when I'm on stable footing. The last thing I need is aimless pampered drifting for 10 days to make it critical.

I imagine myself surrounded by gorgeous turquoise water, wearing the most perfect lady-sailor outfits and indulging in daily poolside massages. Yet at some point in those 10 days I would inevitably ask

Is this it?

And God might actually bitch slap me.

So I guess it's not a sailor's life for me, after all.