Last year, I photographed a work event where a Navy admiral was giving a talk to some cadets about leadership. He used this metaphor to illustrate the concept of commitment: "The chicken is involved in breakfast. The pig is committed to breakfast."

Let me tell you, I am committed to breakfast like a tofu scramble. I just show up every now and then with a random blend of spices and various ingredients that suggest other ingredients without arriving at them completely. Well, here's the latest serving.

I got married in November. Since then, pretty much everyone I have met, from friends to receptionists, has begun a conversation by asking how married life is treating me. I was initially tired of answering that question, but then I came to see it as a means of spreading absurd, slanderous lies that will eventually make their way back to K., my wife, and outrage her. (She is at her most adorable when she is outraged; poor woman.) But for you, I reserve the truth. Married life is not so different from co-habitating, or co-habitating with a mortgage, except in two critical respects: we are not saving money for anything in particular, and I find way more lint in my belly button than I did back then. This latter development is particularly bizarre, because my weight has not changed at all since the wedding, and while I have bought new undershirts since then, they are tight and white, almost certainly not capable of generating lint in these quantities.

Hence, I think it is only reasonable to assume that my wife is planting lint in my belly button while I sleep, in accordance with some bizarre pagan mind-control ritual that she learned while growing up in the suburbs. This is why I was always warned about suburban women.

It's January 2011, and I am still publishing this nonsense.