I don’t know who the hell makes all the rules, but someone is to blame. I don’t know the meaning of life, all of us are here for something but whether it’s to pick cherries or save the whales, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the love we have and the love we bring and the love we show – at least that’s the metaphysical brand I buy, but what if I’m out to lunch and my brand is wrong? I don’t know the truth and sometimes I can’t catch all the slimy lies. I don’t know if it’s better to be a pacifist for every season, or if there are some people so far beyond the bounds of love that they are irredeemable and should be treated like rabid dogs. What do you do with an Adolf Hitler or Ted Bundy or Pol Pot or Gary Ridgeway or on and on and on and on through the catalogue of evil doers? Are they too dangerous to live, or should they be studied like plague germs, under a psychoanalytic microscope? These questions bother me, a liberal pacifist who should know what I believe and what is right, but right now I am a liberal pacifist who just doesn’t know.