I finally found an Indian grocery store. On my first attempt, mapquest sent me to a questionable part of town where the only thing that separated me from the urban wilderness was 45 mph. I didn't stop. My second attempt was not only unsuccessful, it served to confirm my map reading ineptitude. Today, however, as I nodded at the Sikh clerk so enthralled by his Bollywood film, I reveled in my triumph. India Bazaar, as it is called, has a modest selection of snacks, mixes, and spices. I was particularly impressed by the Pillsbury brand frozen Aloo Parathas, complete with the Pillsbury dough boy cartoon. What a truly global economy we live in. Now, my sights are set on finding an Oriental grocery store.

So I decided to take a break from my usually riveting weekend routine, opting instead to make the journey home. Friday was an ideal afternoon for driving, too -- bright and hardly any other cars on the road. Perfect for daydreaming and stream of consciousness moments. I decided that the mesquite tree is a vile looking weed, and if there was one job I wish I could do well, it would be screenwriting. I also concluded that my current life goal -- becoming a tele-radiologist and interpreting diagnostic films from my comfy Mediterranean villa -- amounts to little more than hedonistic indulgence. Honestly, what would be the purpose of such a life? I'm quite aware that I need not justify to anyone the existence I choose to lead. And yet it seems so empty and unimportant to craft life solely around one's desires. I guess what it comes down to is that my life lacks conviction. I want to have a purpose; I want to believe in something, but I don't know what it is supposed to be. I feel, in typical Brown fashion, as if I should be moved by things like injustice; but all this supposed suffering in the world strikes me as far too distant and nebulous to be real. What a hackneyed existential crisis I'm having.