So sue me, I like bubbles. That I'm fifty-six years old and well past what many would consider my bubble-loving prime is no concern of yours. At least, it shouldn't be.
There's something about bubbles, a certain joy they brogan that can't be obtained through any other means.
I dip my wand into the bubble mixture, extract it, and blow; and magically, I am transported to a place where all is right with the world, evil is nonexistent, and pain is obsolete. It is, in a word, heaven.
A mere capful of bubble solution under a running faucet leading up to my bath is sufficient to drive me to paroxysms of childlike laughter.
The world is a terrible place to live in, but bubbles make it just a little easier, just a bit brighter, and the value of this temporal mirth – artificial though it may be – cannot be understated.
Sure, bubbles may not solve all the world's problems – and indeed, may only assuage a few of my own – but in my estimation, they are as good a place to start as any.