Cream Cheese For My Bagel 
 
I suppose I could keep each and every one of my readers on that thin line between the edge of their seats, and their rears on the floor.  However, and I'm sorry to say, it seems that I don't have it in me to unleash such suspenseful and unadulterated drama upon you.  To be honest, I frankly believe that my mailbox should be flooded with the sincerest of thank-you-notes, but some Doctor-Phil-Like instinct is telling me to expect the worst.  Hell, this is America.  We are Americans.  And, as Americans, we have the inexplicable tendency to amplify any problem we may have.  No need to shed tears, my friends, I haven't dropped a daisy cutter on some cave dwellers in scenic Afghanistan (or anything remotely as simple).  The fact is this:  we have zero perspective in which to gauge our problems with those of the rest of the world.  If it’s just not occurring to you that I'm right beyond any reasonable doubt, I’m going to have to ask you move your curser to the small 'x' atop this window.  Feel free to click it - this obviously isn't your scene.  But, if you've been feeling some sublime notion that perhaps my words make sense - that some black veil has been lifted from even more blind eyes - then stick around (I'm sure there are a few empty seats now).  I'll be the first to admit that I'm as American as the rest of us.  I'm the sort of person who whines if I don't have enough cream cheese to cover that little hole in my bagel.  Yes, that little hole is important - but only for twenty seconds at breakfast. Surely there are more important things to whine about, such as finding an empty bottle of A1 sauce before a deliciously plain steak dinner.  Ok, bad example, but I'm going out on a limb and hoping that my sarcasm makes some sort of impact. I'll settle for a small impact, perhaps a lunar crater of sorts, but I desire impact not unlike one 65 million years ago.  It knocked the dinosaurs into the fast lane to Exit 1: Extinction - hopefully it can knock some sense into us.  
 
If my meandering descriptions have failed to stimulate the most beautiful of mental images, then perhaps I should take it upon myself to simplify.  Of course, I could put the brainpower of my readers at fault, but seeing as though I may have alienated a hefty few of you with my advice above, I'll just stay the course.  We're simple people.  See, that wasn't hard.  I used a short sentence, with one contraction and three words, to explain our entire existence.  That alone should serve as explanation enough, but, knowing full well that we are simple, I shall further the point.  We're simple, but we're magnets for complication.  Let me rephrase:  We're not magnets for complication, we're magnets toward complication.  We have an uncanny ability to assume that entire world cares about our problems. Therefore, we emphasize our injuries.  Yeah, I must say, it's unbelievably conversational to mention a nagging groin injury around the water cooler, but maybe we can restrain ourselves.  Eh, who am I kidding.  We can't restrain ourselves.  In fact, restraint seems to be one word that we cannont comprehend.  Say, purely for entertainment's sake, we all fully grasped the concept of restraint.  What a wonderful world we would live in.  I wouldn't be pestered by Jennifer Lopez's fourteenth marriage, or my next-door neighbor’s ingrown toenail.  A little restraint (well, a lot of restraint) would replace the common Joe’s aimless blabbing about some abhorrently trivial Hollywood loudmouth, and put a little perspective in the now gaping hole.  No, I'm not referring to my bagel.  Now, I'm no Aristotle, Socrates, or John Denver, but it doesn't take two philosophers and an oxygen deprived songwriter to formulate a simple theory.  The theory is this (and I've been saying it throughout): we as teenagers, and adults for that matter, simply need to get over it.  I can buy cream cheese for my bagel, and Joe Nobody can get some magic medicine for his disgusting toe, and if you treat those problems like terminal cancer, and talk about them more than Election '04, then we have less to work with than I thought.  Honestly, it's sad.  We as people are so blind to the fact that there are millions of others with bigger and vastly more lethal problems than we have.  Why should you stop bickering about your moron boyfriend who didn't get you flowers for some imaginary holiday?  Why should you stop treating a paper cut like a bullet to the arm on the frontline?  Why should you stop punishing a kid because he royally goofed up and managed an A- on his report card?  Why?   
 
Because it's stupid. 

Because it's meaningless.

Because we shouldn't care. 

I feel truly sorry for the people who do care.  Not only are your problems a picnic in heaven's backyard to some people, but the people who do have problems don't flaunt.  It's amazing how people with cancer compare to people who jammed their finger.  One will fight, struggling to survive, knowing well that the chances of life can be slim.  The other will kick and scream and struggle to survive, knowing well that their finger will feel fine in the morning.  But hey, if you can siphon a little sympathy from someone foolish enough to grant it, more power to you.  However, when you come across that person with cancer, head bared and weakened frame, I hope your finger hurts. I hope the excessive bandage soaks up some of the blood - wait, that's not blood - that looks like hunger for attention and a flare for the over dramatic.  I hope your finger hurts.  
 
If anything can be gotten from the lessons have I taught, and the truths have I administered (and there is no doubt in my mind that I am correct), I would hope it's a lesson of longevity.  I wish I had the comfort of knowing that what I speak can be molded individually to each personal case, without breaking from the original image.  But, knowing that we are selfish and over dramatic, I wouldn't dare be so naïve.  If anything should come of this blog, I would image it be nothing but pure negativity.  I say that not because I have no faith in the people I'm surrounded by, but by the mere fact that we as people are clawing to overdose at the hint of something juicy.  Something to talk about, something to generate a rumor that crushes the spirit of someone else, that's what I envision coming out of this.  Maybe I shouldn't even give myself the credit of having that big an impact on people - however, I couldn’t say that I don't expect it.  It's quite simple actually.  Not only is there no doubt in my mind that I'm correct, and there are millions of people to prove my theory, but I’m sure that with a few minutes of thought, you’ll be able to name someone who fits the spitting image of the people I’ve just described.  Hell, I'm one of them.  I won't shy away from the trend we all seem to be setting.  I'm proud to be an American, but not one who cries when they have no Grey Poupon for their corned beef.  I should hope that all three of my readers would take my words.  Yes, I simply hope that they take them.  It's not up to me what they do with them, but I'm sure they know.  I won't say it again, but I still have the deepest faith that we as people can shake the stereotypes that have been branded deep to our foreheads.  We're strong.  We have American bones and American blood, but it seems that we have French pride.  There is no pride in flaunting a scrape or a cut - if we thought with a half a right mind, not only would this person be ignored, but he'd be laughed at. The emotional girlfriend wouldn't receive the same reaction if we could all handle a little disappointment.  Like I said, restraint and perspective can go a long way.   
 
There's no reason why I can't eat my bagel with a little cream cheese.  
 
There's no reason to cry if I can't.