One of Those Mornings

It was one of those commutes this morning when every lane I move into instantly becomes the slowest lane. I thought I was losing my mind.

The funny thing is, I still got to work in just a little over an hour, making this one of my faster commutes. But my deep frustration in spite of the absolute speed indicates how relative human satisfaction is. It's like I'd almost be happier with a slower commute, being the fastest one on the freeway, than a faster commute, being the slowest one on the freeway. Could it be that there is no such thing as happiness, unless it comes at the expense of another? Does Schadenfreude underlie every enjoyment?

And wow. Apparently with dissatisfaction, I lose all ability to write NOT like an eighth-grader.