A Monday Morning Rant
Hopefully this doesn't actually turn into an actual rant. Last night I was ranting about a variety of topics (namely the "energy crisis" and alternative fuels, and what I want to do with the rest of my life), and in general having difficulty coping with the fact that by the time two years is up, I will have to have set myself on a path that will basically determine the rest of my life. My current areas of attention have nothing whatsoever to do with something so large-scale as the rest of my life; rather, I focus on things like Guitar Hero and Pokemon. Perhaps this is my undoing, but I still would rather wallow in the simplicity of life as it was in high school, where I could basically goof off with impunity. That is, as long as I got the dishes done after dinner. On the whole, I must say, ever since I got my driver's license, life just hasn't quite been the same. I haven't quite decided whether or not I like it better, because back in the day I lived for the thrill of wearing a trench coat to school every day.
This morning, however, I woke up to Spongebob on television, and I could tell right then that today was going to be a good day. Of course, I still had a Psychopharmacology and Behavioral Toxicology test about to rear it's hideous (truly, truly, the word "ugly" does not justice here), but I prolonged worrying for another 30 minutes by resetting my alarm and going back to sleep.
Just a side note on my alarm clock: I love it. It has this wonderful button labelled "nap," which is, for lack of better description, basically the super hero version of a snooze button. My clock also has a snooze button, but it has a thick coating of dust from several months' worth of disuse. The nap button on my clock allows me to set an amount of time between ten minutes and two hours, after which the alarm will ring again. Thus, it is a much more flexible snooze function, a sort of (to elaborate on my earlier metaphor) a Mr. Fantastic of snooze buttons. It is this nap function that allowed me to sleep for another 30 undisturbed minutes, whereas a normal snooze button would likely have awoken me two extra times (at roughly ten minute intervals).
I awoke again after my 30 minute post-sleep nap to Dora the Explorer. It is at this point that I turned my television off, because I find it difficult to tolerate her and her cousin Diego. There's this one "song," in particular, that induces a Primeape-like frenzy in me (if you've seen the episode of Pokemon where Ash captures a Primeape (and I believe that's the episode where he also captures a donut in his PokeBall and dejectedly says "A donut Pokemon..."), then you might know what I'm talking about) in Go, Diego, Go! when this blasted camera comes on screen and repeats "Say click! Take a pic!" until any viewer's brain will turn into absolute mush. This is the only time, I think, that I would concede that television does in fact "rot the brain," as they say. It's quite a brain-rotting experience, possibly similar to death.
Anyway, I took a shower and got myself ready for the day, which was a very enthralling experience, as you can possibly imagine if you've ever taken a shower. There's nothing like hot water inexplicably raining from the shower head in order than I may cleanse myself. Well, I suppose it's not really inexplicable. I just don't really like to think about it. I would prefer to just assume that it must be magic at work. I enjoyed a delicious breakfast consisting of a cinnamon bun and two glasses (actually, plastics) of Sierra Mist, whilst attempting to finish preparing myself for that beastly Psychopharm test.
Hold the phone. I just realized that I'm telling my life story. It's boring. Who wants to hear this garbage? I'm not going to go back and erase it, of course, but I figure most people have their own lives of drudgery to deal with, so why bother also reading about mine? So, switching gears...
A couple nights ago I had a brief discussion with my fellow rationally-minded brother about women. Women are basically the world's largest topic for confusion; I don't even think they understand themselves, or each other. God would understand women, of course, which solidifies in my mind that He's God, because no one else can possibly understand women. You see, we were discussing the issue of pointy-toed shoes. A lot of women wear this type of shoe, and none of us can conceive of just why. According to them, they look good or something.
But here's scientific fact regarding pointy shoes: they make feet look longer and disproportionate, and ultimately lead to a very awkward-looking girl. Plus, they give the impression that said girl has pointy feet. Pointy feet! What an absurd concept. Furthermore, if there is one thing that girls do, it is complain that their shoes hurt their feet. Perhaps pointy shoes don't hurt, although if this is the case it's highly counterintuitive, unless the wearer's feet are naturally shaped like the shoe. I don't think I've met anyone like that. I can come to one conclusion from this: girls dress only to impress themselves. I find this highly puzzling for a few reasons. For one thing, I don't find the importance of dressing to impress anyone. I find it pretentious. I like to wear clothing for utility and comfortability. Although I must admit, tuxedos are ridiculously comfortable, and also impressive at the same time. But even that's just my own opinion. For the otherr thing though, if you are going to dress to impress anyone, why would it be yourself? What's there to prove?
I figured out part of my problem. I expect women to behave in a way that makes sense. I assume that women are "ideal" (this is part of modeling of systems and engineering); to give some explanation, if one were to assume a spring was ideal, one would assume that spring had no mass and no friction, only springiness. This is to say that I assume women behave ideally, but the problem is that they don't. Unlike springs, where mass and friction can be reasonably neglected and accounted for later, women act so grossly un-ideal (if that's even a word) that it is a poor choice to assume an ideal woman. In fact, I don't think there can be a such thing as an ideal woman, because "ideal" would mean that they only have the property of woman-ness, which is so clearly impossible to understand that it doesn't make any rational sense to think of it as being ideal.
I don't know where further I can go with this. In closing, "You might as well just strap knives to the end of your shoes." --William D. Monthie III
But of course, a woman wouldn't do that, because then it would serve a purpose: you could kill zombies with a swift kick to the head.
This morning, however, I woke up to Spongebob on television, and I could tell right then that today was going to be a good day. Of course, I still had a Psychopharmacology and Behavioral Toxicology test about to rear it's hideous (truly, truly, the word "ugly" does not justice here), but I prolonged worrying for another 30 minutes by resetting my alarm and going back to sleep.
Just a side note on my alarm clock: I love it. It has this wonderful button labelled "nap," which is, for lack of better description, basically the super hero version of a snooze button. My clock also has a snooze button, but it has a thick coating of dust from several months' worth of disuse. The nap button on my clock allows me to set an amount of time between ten minutes and two hours, after which the alarm will ring again. Thus, it is a much more flexible snooze function, a sort of (to elaborate on my earlier metaphor) a Mr. Fantastic of snooze buttons. It is this nap function that allowed me to sleep for another 30 undisturbed minutes, whereas a normal snooze button would likely have awoken me two extra times (at roughly ten minute intervals).
I awoke again after my 30 minute post-sleep nap to Dora the Explorer. It is at this point that I turned my television off, because I find it difficult to tolerate her and her cousin Diego. There's this one "song," in particular, that induces a Primeape-like frenzy in me (if you've seen the episode of Pokemon where Ash captures a Primeape (and I believe that's the episode where he also captures a donut in his PokeBall and dejectedly says "A donut Pokemon..."), then you might know what I'm talking about) in Go, Diego, Go! when this blasted camera comes on screen and repeats "Say click! Take a pic!" until any viewer's brain will turn into absolute mush. This is the only time, I think, that I would concede that television does in fact "rot the brain," as they say. It's quite a brain-rotting experience, possibly similar to death.
Anyway, I took a shower and got myself ready for the day, which was a very enthralling experience, as you can possibly imagine if you've ever taken a shower. There's nothing like hot water inexplicably raining from the shower head in order than I may cleanse myself. Well, I suppose it's not really inexplicable. I just don't really like to think about it. I would prefer to just assume that it must be magic at work. I enjoyed a delicious breakfast consisting of a cinnamon bun and two glasses (actually, plastics) of Sierra Mist, whilst attempting to finish preparing myself for that beastly Psychopharm test.
Hold the phone. I just realized that I'm telling my life story. It's boring. Who wants to hear this garbage? I'm not going to go back and erase it, of course, but I figure most people have their own lives of drudgery to deal with, so why bother also reading about mine? So, switching gears...
A couple nights ago I had a brief discussion with my fellow rationally-minded brother about women. Women are basically the world's largest topic for confusion; I don't even think they understand themselves, or each other. God would understand women, of course, which solidifies in my mind that He's God, because no one else can possibly understand women. You see, we were discussing the issue of pointy-toed shoes. A lot of women wear this type of shoe, and none of us can conceive of just why. According to them, they look good or something.
But here's scientific fact regarding pointy shoes: they make feet look longer and disproportionate, and ultimately lead to a very awkward-looking girl. Plus, they give the impression that said girl has pointy feet. Pointy feet! What an absurd concept. Furthermore, if there is one thing that girls do, it is complain that their shoes hurt their feet. Perhaps pointy shoes don't hurt, although if this is the case it's highly counterintuitive, unless the wearer's feet are naturally shaped like the shoe. I don't think I've met anyone like that. I can come to one conclusion from this: girls dress only to impress themselves. I find this highly puzzling for a few reasons. For one thing, I don't find the importance of dressing to impress anyone. I find it pretentious. I like to wear clothing for utility and comfortability. Although I must admit, tuxedos are ridiculously comfortable, and also impressive at the same time. But even that's just my own opinion. For the otherr thing though, if you are going to dress to impress anyone, why would it be yourself? What's there to prove?
I figured out part of my problem. I expect women to behave in a way that makes sense. I assume that women are "ideal" (this is part of modeling of systems and engineering); to give some explanation, if one were to assume a spring was ideal, one would assume that spring had no mass and no friction, only springiness. This is to say that I assume women behave ideally, but the problem is that they don't. Unlike springs, where mass and friction can be reasonably neglected and accounted for later, women act so grossly un-ideal (if that's even a word) that it is a poor choice to assume an ideal woman. In fact, I don't think there can be a such thing as an ideal woman, because "ideal" would mean that they only have the property of woman-ness, which is so clearly impossible to understand that it doesn't make any rational sense to think of it as being ideal.
I don't know where further I can go with this. In closing, "You might as well just strap knives to the end of your shoes." --William D. Monthie III
But of course, a woman wouldn't do that, because then it would serve a purpose: you could kill zombies with a swift kick to the head.
posted by The Chris at 11:20 AM
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