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The hills of Griffin rise and fall as you drive to Atlanta Road down Taylor Street. You can almost smell the smoke from the building that caught fire last night. You'd like to remember the name of it, but it escapes like water from your cupped hand. Sunshine glints between trees and buildings. It peeks out from beneath billboard. It ducks around corners and leaps from hidden niches like a giggling child. The Castrol Tire and Lube welcomes you with a quiet nod of efficient courtesy. Take my keys, flush my fluids, fix my wipers, change my filters, you say. You can hear the Keurig cough and steam while air drills crank and machinery moans and metal scrapes, and men laugh. A keyboard clack, clack, clacks away and a water cooler belches a bubble of air from its last use by a long-since-forgotten thirsty customer. You take it all in inside a moment before you turn on your phone, insert your earbuds, and await your services rendered wrapped in an electric blanket of pixels, vexels, three G's, and a screen of liquid crystals.
How does that classic phrase go? Nobody writes a nine hundred page manifesto to talk about how happy they are.

Which I think is my problem. I'm just so... well... satisfied with how life's turned out.

It might be fair to point out that, yeah, I make a middling salary. But I could be making less.

And my job could be less stressful, but it could be more.

And although I'm not the biggest fan of our current government, I've seen firsthand other countries with worse governments. I know things could be worse.

To cap it all off, I'm dating a wonderful woman with a good career and good values.

So why, then, would I choose to write a deviantART journal entry if everything's going so well?

Well I suppose that's the problem. There's nothing to really write about.

Damn.