Let's go clubbing, let's party, let's tear it up! I'm looking for "the good times" but I can't seem to find them when I pass out on the lawn. We're all sick, poor, lonely. All because we think we can get past it and be rich, beautiful, sleek, chic and loved. So we make friends, forge connections to help us step over one another on the way to the top. We conform where we must and denounce what we need to until we're so nauseous that we vomit all of it out and find ourselves empty; unsure of what we really think about anything at all. I'm sick of being stoned and stupid and "cool"; I don't even care how much more amusing everything is when I am. Yeah, it makes me feel like I have something to do; something to tell people later to make them think I'm havin' crazy fun and, hey!, if you party with me, we'll have crazy fun together. I party so I have a story to tell later (please, please just listen to me! Look at me and think I'm interesting and smart and funny and sexy and be with me so people will be jealous and I'll have something to preoccupy my time with other than sitting in my room wondering what other people are doing).

I used to think that love was the true and only good thing in the world (Hey, it does conquer all, right?). But if love walks out on you, or simply fades away, what happens then? When it isn't enough, and everything's a game, getting laid being the consolation prize, what's the point? Hmmm, maybe if I go out tonight, I'll meet someone at a party, and we'll mess around and maybe in the morning I'll wake up next to someone extraordinary (cross my fingers and hope to die). And then I'll have something to talk about and make other people jealous with. I can indulge in someone else and tell myself that they're perfect because I love them and if I'm with them forever I'll never have to look at what I'm doing with my time. Cuz you know what I'm doing? I'm loving that person. And one day that happened to me, and it was great for eight long months. But then it ended and I had to take a good year-long look at myself and I couldn't find the answers to anything in my relfection so I dissected it and it hardly hurt and no one knew and that seemed enough for a while. I had a secret and maybe someone would care that I liked to cut my skin up because I got a strange sense of satisfaction at seeing the red marks trying to heal. For a while that made sense, but when it stopped helping I had to look at myself again and my own personal renovation began. Of course! If you can't find the answers, re-do yourself and a whole new world will open itself up and happiness will pour out and cover you in that warm, fuzzy feeling.

So I started looking for the answers and found myself looking at faith. For many people they look up or down or at the earth or inside of themselves to find a spirituality that they can picture has the answers. Either God does, or we do (we just don't know it yet), or life does, or Allah, or Buddha, or maybe the earth and the goddess and the animals. But I can't put my faith blindly into something I've never really known to be true. It's not that I don't believe in God becauase of the horrible things in life; world hunger, disease, poverty, or simple anger. I just don't see how we would even know he's there. As for us having the answers inside of ourselves, if we really did, even if it hid inside of us, waiting to reveal itself when we're eighty and happy old people who will die with the secret of the "point" to living, how is it, not one person felt compelled to tell someone else? I don't know about you, but when 'I know something you don't know', I have to tell someone eventually or I go crazy. So how is it that something as huge as the point to life didn't even creep out and become known? And I won't even go into animals and the goddess because really, when it comes to them, we're just taking other people's word to be the truth.

So where does it leave me? Because I can't seem to find the point for going through the torture of trying to be happy in a world full of people all trying to climb over each other to reach to the sky and scream out, "Now what? Where's the reward for all my life's work? Is it you, God, that sends me to heaven so I can be eternally happy? Or will I finally know all the answers and be enlightened and at peace? Or do I get to simply do it all over again, and again, and again. Maybe it was just the fact that I loved at one point and knew what it was like. Or maybe I was popular enough to be noted in history books. Tell me, where's the finish line?" But maybe there isn't one. What if matter all comprised this by accident and we've been running around trying to make sense of it and in the mean time we're dying and ending and finishing and being nothing after we've found out….what exactly? Because once you've loved and lost, when you've never found Jesus, and after the party ends, what's the point?