How I know there is no God.

Calm down, this isn't an intense lesson in theology. This isn't a study of philosophical paradoxes. It isn't a denouncement of organized religion. Although, perhaps some day, I'll delve into that. Or maybe I already have. Check the archives.

I'm sitting here, at 8:19 pm, in familiar attire. In fact, on just about every weeknight, you'll find me in a similar manner: Wearing a t-shirt, sweatpants, and slippers. Oh yeah, I'm talking about the holy trinity of clothing comfort. These articles of clothing are the undisputed champions of my wardrobe, although I will occasionally don a robe as it strikes my fancy.

It's not that I wear these clothes all day. I go out into the world in more respectable attire. Jeans, sneakers, polos, occasionally a button-down if I'm feeling crazy. But let's be honest: I really want to be in a t-shirt, sweatpants, and slippers. There are no exceptions. It's just that I'm a giant pussy and I conform to the all-important societal norm. I wear my jeans...and then I put sweatpants on when I get home. Sneakers are unceremoniously kicked off in favor of their more slippery counterpart. Any and all cumbersome apparel is promptly discarded as I prepare for something I like to call "lounge time." The hours for lounge time are currently 12pm to Close (i.e. sleep), although starting work next week will certainly alter this routine.

But why? Why don't I optimize my satisfaction in life and slum it up 24/7? Why don't I dress like your dad on Christmas morning every day for the rest of my life? Well, for one, slippers couldn't withstand the beating that everyday wearing requires, but more importantly, because I unfortunately care too much. I'd like to think that I didn't, but alas, I do.

Ever heard of Hedonism? According to Wikipedia, our dear friend and comrade, "Hedonism is a school of philosophy which argues that pleasure has an ultimate importance and is the most important pursuit of humanity."

If only. If only I was quite brazen enough not to give a single solitary F-word what people thought about me to the point where I could dress like I was retrieving a newspaper from the front stoop day in and day out.

It was at this point in my soul-searching that I made my ultimate revelation: that there is no God. Hence the title. Why are the best things in life the most socially undesirable? The best foods are burgers, pizza and wings. This is, like all my other opinions, indisputable. But wouldn't you know, they're fucking terrible for you and they'll give you a coronary. Why can't salad taste like wings? Why? I would be the healthiest person you ever met. I would. Why are the most comfortable clothes also the ones that'll make people give you the stink-eye? Hell, I know I don't look that bad right now; I own a mirror. But if I went out like this, well, you know the drill. My greatest gift in life would be the ability not to care; then I could live out the rest of my life in Hedonistic fashion, the only tradeoff being that I'd look like the Comic Book Guy and I'd likely smell like a week-old dumpster.

But really, aren't our inhibitions just an extension of Hedonism? If we're fat and raggedy, we won't have friends, and we won't get laid. That's quite a blow to the pleasure-seeking lifestyle, isn't it? So perhaps we're all Hedonistic in our own little way, striving to keep that delicate balance between the Freudian id and societal expectations. Like hitting a ball in tennis, we're constantly aiming for that sweet spot. I'm just as much a victim of the system as anyone. So until the day that societal tastes change to the point where people Colin Mochrie to Colin Farrell, I suppose I'll just have to deal with the fact that there is a 1.0 Pearson R correlation between "Things I'd like to do" and "Things that would make me look shitty."

Up yours, society. Pass the salad.