What am I sick of, you want to know? I am sick of it all.

I am sick of demands and high-maintenance bitches, I am sick of raunch and those who consider "hotness" a meaningful personality trait. I am sick of Carmen Electra, Britney, and Jessica Simpson and her giant teeth. I am sick of the self-involved, the shallow, and the clueless. I am sick of waitresses who look like Barbie and resent having to bring me a glass of wine. I am also sick of trust-fund rock-stars, bougainvillea, and the network of crass and bitter men that comprises nearly every working stand-up comic. I am sick of my stupid boyfriend's propensity to neglect to answer his phone when he is in a bar, talking to a skinny girl bartender.

I am sick of porn, of Post-Its, and of that commercial showing retirees rocking out to shitty music inside their Mercedes. I am sick of unsolicited advice, Girls Gone Wild, vanity plates that reiterate the make of the car they're on, and people who want to show you their pictures from Burning Man.

Wait: you did not actually want to know what I'm sick of? Fine. I am sick of that, too. Here is what I would say, if you told me you didn't want to hear what I am sick of: "Oh, really? Well, I am sick of you." (Not you, dear reader, not you.)

My attitude today--in case you had noticed a slight sea change--is maybe inspired by the disturbing news articles I read yesterday, unrelated to one another, yet heading down the same sordid path.

The first article concerned a 69-year-old Huntington Beach man who was arrested recently for sneaking into a stable in a state park in the late hours one night, covering his naked body in olive oil and oats, and encouraging horses to lick them off him. It was apparently a long-time fantasy, and he used the opportunity of his wife�s being out of town to enact it.

The other article concerned a Wisconsin man, aged 20, who fell in love with a newspaper photo of a girl and decided he had to have sex with her. The only wrinkle in his plan seems to be that the girl in question was not technically available, the photo having accompanied her obituary. Did that technicality stop our hero? It did not! He enlisted the help of his twin brother and a friend, who jumped in a car (or truck, I�m guessing it was a truck), stopped to pick up condoms, and headed off to dig her up. They had dug all the way down to the concrete vault enclosing her coffin when they were apprehended.

Reading those articles one after the other has caused a lingering nausea, a distaste for humanity, at least that sector thereof that considers the indulgence of any fantasy not a sign of psychosis or a grand lack of self-restraint, but a �right.�

My fantasy at the moment, which I cannot indulge, is to understand my place in a world where the stories I hear do not fit in with anything I have been taught.

Star of the day. . .H. P. Lovecraft