My life is very satisfying on one hand, but not at all satisfying on the other. Why the not satisfied part? Because I DO feel satisfied.

Let me explain. For the time being, I live in a two story house located on one of those hills full of middling to "well-off" white and asian people. It's not a gated community, but it has the equivalent in local security. There is no crime. People wave at me when I'm walking/hiking around. People speak at me when I'm walking/hiking. The view from the 2nd floor balcony is gorgeous, a golden mirage of limelight sweeping from one end of Ventura County to the other. There's a pot-bellied pig next door that I'm fascinated by and watch for tens of minutes. Somehow part of me is bothered by all of this.

I eat soy, chicken and the occasional 'all-beef' chili dog from a hot dog chain here; it's the only 6 inch orgasm stick I'll ever have. There is strawberry-banana juice in two fridges, along with sundry alcoholic beverages and a sea of other 12 oz. drinks. We have a six foot freezer. I actually cook almost all of my meals. We can buy whatever sorts of health food we want. Somehow part of me is bothered by all of this.

I have a loving family that only sometimes breaks into temper-tantrums and ranting. I pay no rent and get paid back for the times when I buy groceries. I can always find at least one friend to talk to online. People in general seem to tolerate me, actually liking me and/or my therapy in most cases. If I had the money for airfare or a road trip, I could get play. Somehow part of me is bothered by all of this.

I think I'm at that impasse where some people would find Jesus and that'd be that. For me, though, having faith in something--myself or otherwise--isn't the answer. I have plenty of faith in the odd blend of ideas I've put together and religion has never satisfied me (though sometimes I frankly wish it did).

Stability just feels fucking weird. I have no immediate problems--socially, financially, not even mentally so much anymore (thanks to the Wellbutrin). My only consolation is worrying about long-term shit, since I'm still unemployed and I still haven't published any fiction.

I'm actually glad I have these problems. They give me something to think about and plan on. They force me to keep thinking, weigh my options and be productive. They're the only things that inspire me to do better by myself.

I am complaining, yes. I fully expect some of you to think I'm out-of-touch with real living or that I don't appreciate my situation. It is a damn good situation; I can't argue that and I do appreciate it.

I don't, however, feel much in the way of accomplishment. This stability tends to lull me into just enjoying things, lazing around with no purpose. It's deceptive, because I have a deep need to produce, make and create something. I like being content or happy as much as the next person, but it gets in the way of productivity.

So it's actually useful that somehow, part of me is bothered by all of this. It keeps me active.

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