Two thirty in the afternoon, I'm home from work. Winter. Nothing to do. I flip through the channels, nothing but soap operas. I have to fight the urge to climb into bed, afraid I may never get up again. This ennui has taken human form and, with its dusty, white hands around my throat, has me gasping for breath. My mother tells me it's how most people live. You get up, go to work, pay the bills. Cook, clean, do the laundry. If you're lucky, you take a vacation once in a while. You get old, retire, and die. That's life. But all the questions can't be answered already; there's got to be something more. Maybe it's time to get pregnant, buy a house, adopt a dog.

Ashamed, I find myself envying the Iraqis and the Israelis. There seems nothing false about war. Loyalties are strong. The enemy is known. There are none of the subtleties and nuances of ordinary life; you're at the core of every feeling. Nothing else matters but to stay alive. And that's how I want to feel.