I'm reading The Human Stain. Not a huge Philip Roth fan (Portnoy's Complaint sort of got on my nerves), but there is a section where he talks about the character assembling his new life with things he loves to do: poetry, pretty girls, and boxing (ah, that sounds just like my life). It sounds so simple. I could list the things I love and build a life around them. Yet ugly, boring, frustrating things always seem to creep in - work drama, family drama, gross things in the refrigerator, too many shoes on my bedroom floor.

There's absolutely no reason I should be worrying so much. It's silly.