On the act of Contemplation

He was waiting for a revelation to turn his life around.
It was a long time since he had started waiting, and he would wait a good deal longer. Or at least, he WOULD, if there were any justice in the universe. Pretty soon though he'd meed a woman who didn't disgust him and they'd fuck and have kids and get married and get old and die and that'd be the end of it forever.
At the moment, however, he was in something of a rut. He spent at least an hour each day doing nothing but sit around, mope, and contemplate the miserableness of his poor pathetic existence and how things came to be this way. He'd continue this increasingly-masturbatory exercise until he got hungry, had to shit, or someone bothered him.
And they always Bothered him; oh, how they bothered him. Frankly, it was ridiculous. Here he was, wallowing in his own self-constructed misery, and he had the gall to view these clearly well-adjusted people as being somehow deficient, as if he even knew what it was like not to have Problems. And of course he always let himself be plucked from his mental self-indulgence, regardless of how much it annoyed him, the self-sacrificing son-of-a-schmuck. He did it just so he could try and tell himself how he was such a "good person" that he was willing to listen to people he didn't Want to listen to, do stuff he didn't Want to do, all for the "good" of others.
Really, he had no plans. He wasn't going anywhere. He was a thirty-four year-old man caught up with adolescent issues. He refused to grow, to change. He worked a dead-end 9-to-5 job at Kinkos because he never looked for anything else. He had dropped out of college two and a half years in to his Chemical Engineering degree because of grades. This was just a few years after he declared a mental war on himself.
What had happened was, he had gotten this vague kind-of-a-feeling that he might not have been happy. So he thought about how he should be happy, how he could be happy, what happiness really was, what made people happy, how unhappy people might decieve themselves into thinking they're happy, and a whole lot of other pointless noise. The more he thought about it, the less happy he became, and in a truly unprecedented act of self-sabotage, he decided that the best way to go about fixing his happiness problem was to think more.

The really amusing part is, the part I told you about earlier, where he stops waiting? He never does find his revelation that makes everything better. He just finally - FINALLY - stops thinking about whether he's happy or not. And the best part? He never understands - or even contemplates - why he's suddenly so much happier.