If you loving composting so much, then why don't you marry it?

I am gonna shoot straight with you right now. I love the idea of making my own fertilizer with my half-rotted, worm-eaten banana peels and lettuce. The other day I composted for the first time. Happily, I avoided a sophomoric rookie mistake of simply dumping my decomposing vegetable peels onto the leafy goodness, remembering the brief training I received from one of the elder statesmen of Allelous, Susan Young, wife of Steve Young (not the former 49ers QB with a rocket cannon for an arm, the cooler version; the one with homemade bookshelves brimming to the top with multiplicitous theological treatises--ah, books.) Anyway, as I took that shovel in my hands and began to unearth what lay beneath this shallow grave of bio-degradables, I rejoiced in the fact that one day these remnants of food would be transported to just outside my window to help nourish the small garden Dave, Henry and myself hope to landscape in the next few months. Can you imagine it? Waking up and going outside to pick some fresh fruit to sweeten up a healthy bowl of bran cereal, or returning from work and before you step into the house plucking a delicious cucumber for the evening's salad. I can't wait. So I guess that until the day comes when I am getting on in age, white-haired and allowed to be beligerent to little children, who choose to run on my freshly mowed lawn (that is, Old Man Thompson--please be patient, a blog explaining this dream persona will one day follow), I will have to resign myself to Tree-Hugging, hopefully-not-anemic, Farmer Thompson.