Is an existence without desire very desirable?

I write everything down. The strangest of things. And I write them everywhere. In the notepad of my phone, in the notepad of my iTouch, in my wooden journal. All the strange or interesting or sad or lonely or passionate things that people say or do are all mashed together in my head, everything makes sense together.
Matt once said that I could walk on his hands so I didn't ruin my shoes.
I heard a song in Nolan's car by Common with the line 'If heaven had a height you would be that tall.'
My dad explained to me that the semi-truckers were sleeping on the side of the freeway when their massive vehicles were parked in diagonals.
My mom and I walked out of Bristol Farms when she so eloquently stated 'This is how Oprah Winfrey eats.'
McGinnis told us about how people used to think they needed to know the origins of something to conquer it, so that a man would cut himself with something made of iron and would need to recall iron's origins for the wound to heal, no bandages, no antiseptic. Just origins.

I've thought about the ads on the flappy things on a grocery cart, where the babies are supposed to sit. How shameless do you have to be to get your face on one of those? How unsuccessful would you have to be to imprint your name and business where finicky toddlers rest their bottoms? What about being a California psychic, the ones that wear turbans on their heads and tell you to dial the number on the bottom of your screen. How in the world do you end up behind a desk begging for strangers to call you so you can fake their future? How lonely must you be?

Are there requirements for these things?