I dunno.  I don't have an inner drive so much as a relatively stable set of intense aversions.

What looks like goal-directed activity from the outside is really just an attempt to return to homeostasis by getting as far away from willful stupidity as possible.  I find willful stupidity disquieting, perhaps even unnerving, especially when it aggressively asserts its right not just to willful stupidity -- a right which no one was denying -- but to willful stupidy in my face, rather like the customer in Clerks who demands to know why he is not being allowed to drink his coffee cold, when in fact no one is denying him the right to drink his coffee cold, they merely did not see the need to arrange the entire store so as to afford him the minimum number of steps from the coffee dispenser to the nearest available ice.

Bush is like that guy, in that he wants not just to be eternally, hopelessly, ecstatically stupid, which is fine with me, but to do it on my television set and in my newspaper, with my country, a country of which I ask only that it help me on my flight to eventual death with as little noise from the cockpit as possible, thank you, and please no bomb-dropping along the way.

When a person's -- especially a politician's -- galactic stupidity makes such a demand of my attention, thus harshing my cool, my homeostatic buzz, I wish above all to be elsewhere, outside a pay toilet with diareah and no dime, I don't care, I can take any physical adversity you please, I will spent , I have spent, a year sleeping on the floor in a 100 year old house with a toilet that freezes in the winter, but please God don't vex me, or if you insist upon vexing me, at least allow me egress, that is all I ask.

Left entirely to my own devices, without the irritating Brownian motion caused by a power-structure intent on, not just getting rich and powerful, but also, and more to the point, doing it at other people's explicit expense, and even more to the point, on my time, I would read books, talk to friends, watch movies, and once I finally get over the emotional ravages of an entirely absurd marriage that ended six years ago, now, date.

And even those affirmative actions would be motivated not so much by an inner drive as an inner itch, to know what the hell is going on with this world, and to experience most of things I think might be worth experiencing before I die, at least once, not because I expect revelation, enlightment, inner peace, or even necessarily amusement, but rather because I'm going to die someday, and I don't want to say on my death bed that I never tried a cigarette.  These things must not require effort, however.

I am endlessly lazy.  The illusion of direction is really the motion of a person trying above all to avoid mental distress.  I have better things to read than the Washington Post.