Now the Pentagon is saying that they think I'm dead. That's odd. I don't feel dead. Then again, I don't feel particularly alive, either. But then again, who among us is truly alive?

Is trudging to work every miserable day of your meaningless life, and then handing a third or more of your limited time on Earth over to some inhumane boss who doesn't give a crap about you as long as the Dobson report is on time, working for an ugrateful employer who will eventually lay you off just as your youngest child is about to go off to college, only to go home to a woman who no longer loves you except every other Friday when you come home with a paycheck and is haveing an affair with your best friend, and then finding out your 15 year old daughter has gotten herself knocked up by some 18 year old bass player named Snake because that's what he has tatoos of all over his body, eventually forcing you to turn to alcohol to stagger through your remaining days, until you drop dead of a heart attack at 56.... Is that what you call living?

Ain't life grand?