Last week was fairly decent: Our agency won the Ritz-Carlton account; a Mallard duck that landed in our office pond a few weeks ago hatched five ducklings; and my girlfriend got Tuesday night off.
The one shitty thing was that June ended. That officially meant that this year was halfway over - and I hadn't done squat.
As I drove home from work, I wondered if that might explain the gnawing sensation I've been feeling lately, like my chest cavity’s filled with small beavers. After all, Beaver Chest is a common symptom with human beings who feel incomplete, unfulfilled or sober.
Then they go and join a cult, a white supremicist group or the Peace Corps. They apply to film school. They start a kayaking business in Belize. They get a heroin addiction, a boob job, an MBA, or a spouse. They quit their jobs so they can travel the world, teach high school English, or write an epic novel about the cashew industry.
But for many of them, the gnawing sensation still comes back, and once again they try to figure out how to make that feeling go away.
The thing is, I'm not sure Beaver Chest is ever meant to go away. It's not in our DNA to be perfectly content. Because until we invented things like agriculture, medicine and crossbows, evolution killed and ate all of our content ancestors. It's the constantly hungry and uncertain ones who kept running, killing and eating just long enough to impregnate each other. And so they passed their hungry and uncertain genes onto their angst-ridden, self-absorbed descendents.
I'm looking forward to getting rid of my Beaver Chest in the second half of 2004, I really do. First on my To Do list is a reunion tour with that other 70's Swedish super band, Cool Candys.
Good Lord. As my dad would say, "You look like Korean Neil Diamond."