I've become convinced recently that Americans are too concerned with return on investment. Besieged as we are by whether or not our houses are growing more valuable, we put in nice landscaping five minutes before we sell. We ask ourselves whether we'll take this job or that by how it will impact our resumes. In some instances, we are afraid to be seen walking an ugly dog.

And where does it really get us?

Maybe it's capitalism. Maybe it's our Judeo-Christian background, as a culture, and our relentless obsession with the principal of hard work. But really, who goes home after a long day of being nice to other people and thinks, shit, what a waste of a day? I really shouldn't have smiled at that old lady. I really shouldn't have waved to that school bus. I'm a reject of a human being.

The truth is that in these uncertain economic times (Beloved's most hated expression), almost nothing is a guaranteed win. Your life could become a bad Alannis Morisette song at any moment, what with the spoons when you really need a fork and all that. You could do everything right, jog every day and eat healthy, organic foods and still drop over dead at 35 whilst hiking to the top of Mount Everest on a clear autumnal morning with the earth shimmering beneath you.

Return on investment is a privileged person's way of measuring energy in versus energy out.

I'm finding as I get older that the only things that matter to my state of happiness are the ones that make other people's lives better. I'm no Mother Theresa and my income tax statements reflect that. I try, I do, but I'm often influenced in my giving by whether or not I think it will bring me something in the end, whether that something is a feel-good moment or a deduction or some form of social currency. Is it possible to do something nice just to do it? Really? I think so, but it's most commonly not the reason we do it, because we've all bought in to the concept of ROI.

The only thing that keeps me from feeling as though I've fallen into the American ROI abyss is my cat. Petunia, while a shelter cat (six points for altruism) is the worst cat ever. I mean, sure, she's nice to me, but Beloved can barely pick her up, she swats at the little angel except on the best of days and my niece E., who is two, says what Petunia says is "HISS." She's a bitch of a muted calico domestic shorthair, and there's really no good reason in the world to keep her. She has zero ROI.

This cat of mine I cling to because she's evidence that I don't do everything for a reason.

I have long railed against the idea of quarterly reporting and continuous financial gains. I think paying too much attention to short-term goals results in corner-cutting and -- let's face it -- unethical and inhumane behaviors. Yet I find myself measuring myself against short-term goals all the time, whether they be in months or in years.

Where did we get this idea of ROI, and why have we, as a culture, bought into it so? Because truly, the more you have, the more you stand to lose. I'm not trying to be Debbie Downer here, but it's true. So why not do things just because they are there, just because they are fun?

I'll tell you. It's because as long as everyone else is still subscribing to ROI, then you lose if you're just in it for the moment. We would all have to collectively decide to stop placing importance on income and social stature and agree to frolic in sunflower fields, and I have a feeling that as long as humans walk this earth, there will always be someone trying to convince you his sunflower field is way bigger and better and produces more seeds per acre than yours.

I haven't quite figured this problem of the human condition out yet. Perhaps another episode of LA Ink will help.