"Why?"

Why. It is the question of relentless, inquisitive small children.

But I think those questions run more rampant, in reality, in adulthood. Well, just a bit more complicated. You begin to ask yourself why you want something, or why people are the way they are, or what you want and what are the things that make you happy. Why do I reach for the big mama buttery croissant some days and not others? Not that happiness is this finite thing that anyone fully grasps - well, I won't get into that now. So many questions of why. Why do we watch Jersey Shore? Why do we watch horrible car accidents?

I'm sitting down after a long, busy day at work, reading up on how the economy's still in the hole, and boy does that help kick up your gratitude at simply being employed! Not to mention what it does to your confidence in the global marketplace, and the blows it strikes to your courage in the face of fear and taking risks.

Why we do things. Speaks volumes. About who you are - because even the things you don't do are choices that you make.

Damn sometimes I wish I wasn't a writer. Maybe that would mean I wouldn't think about everything to death. And maybe I'd get a piece of that "ignorance is bliss" cake. Tell me, what does it taste like? I can only imagine.

Take, for example the people we talk to. Our friends, colleagues, acquaintances, romantic interests. The ones we call. The ones we think about calling but ultimately decide not to. Who am I talking about, now, hmmm? Wouldn't you like to know.