My Lack of Dating Life

Not long ago, I traveled to India – or was it Tibet? – to find a guru who could answer one of the Great Questions of Life. I climbed a mountain all the way to the top, and there, sitting crossed legged on the ledge, was a guru. A wise woman.

I went before her. “Do you mind if I asked you a question?” I said. She nodded, so I did. “Why is it that some women have no trouble finding boyfriends or guys to go out with, while others can’t to save their lives?”

She turned to me. “If I knew the answer,” she said, “do you think I’d be sitting up here on this stupid rock all by myself?”

All right – so I never went to Tibet or India. I’ve never even been out of Florida. But I’m telling the truth when I say that it’s a mystery wrapped in an enigma why some women have men in their lives all the time, and others don’t. I’ve heard a few explanations bandied about; It’s the women who go out and socialize who snap up the guys; it’s the really sexy Megan Fox-esque women who have all the guys flocking to them. My own sister had this to say…’if a guy does not so much as look at me – there’s only one explanation. He’s gay.”

Oh puh – lease. You’re not that hot, Paige. But none of those explanations are right. We all know women who fit the bold and the beautiful category that have gone months without seeing a guy. So what the hell is it, then?

I have absolutely no idea. No – actually I do, else I would not be typing this out, right?

Let’s take me, for example. I’m young, I’m attractive, and I am very single. A true fact that will both relieve and dismay my dad – it has been exactly one year and eight months since I last had sex. Relief, for obvious reasons. Dismay…because all fathers know that daughters are karmic punishment for their youthful transgressions.

Okay – forget the sex. I have not been on a serious date, or any kind of date for that matter, in such a long time that typing it will in all probability make me break down and cry. I really do not get it, at all. Why am I not date-able? And more importantly, what can I do to fix that? The solution, I feel, cannot be sold and bought over a shop counter, nor will it come in the form of implants as is obviously the case with Ashlee. It is more ethereal than that. It is…attitude.

“Attitude?” you ask. “What does that mean?” It means that I have to change the way I think and with that, my behavior. The theory that I am proposing right this minute is that the reason some women are asked out far more often than others is because they have self confidence around men. They are at ease around them.

Confidence is the key, I’m sure. Not the snooty, bitchy, I snap my fingers and jerk my head and SNAP! confidence. I’m talking about the kind of confidence exhibited by women who grew up with brothers around. It is exhibited in the way they act – the kind of naturalness and lack of phonyness that immediately puts men at ease.

I went on this date once. He was a nice guy – sweet and not really all that confident but you could tell that he was trying. And me? I was a complete mess. I became unnaturally loud and boisterous. I wasn’t listening to his jokes, just going through the motions of displaying delight. And all the while I was thinking in that tiny, whiny and desperate inner voice – “How am I doing? How am I doing?” I was acting all plastic and phony and I think it showed, because neither of us really enjoyed the date at all.

Speaking of which, there is something I would like to share with guys out there. Do not, in those post coital moments, ask your female partner… “Did you cum? Did you have an orgasm?” Because if the woman did not in fact have an orgasm, she would have to lie to make you feel good about yourself, and no one ever feels good about lying. And if she was honest and said “No – I did not cum,” you’ll be left all miserable and in doubt of your sexual prowess, even is the sex was good. An orgasm is not a necessary part of a good tumble in bed. And for those of you who claim not to have a problem in that department, as in “I always satisfy her.”….SUUUUUUUUUUUUURE. You think that, if it makes you feel better. What I’m trying to say here is…please don’t make us lie just to feed your insatiable ego.

Now – back to my lack of date-ability. Okay – maybe I have a slight confidence problem. That isn’t so bad, is it? I mean, there are worse things. One of those things is an overconfidence problem. There are some of us, and by that I may be talking about myself although I am not entirely sure, who think that we are not the problem; the guys are. We act all high and mighty atop a pedestal that guys get turned off, or at least discouraged. It’s like the universe revolves around us and we expect the men to conform to our expectations. Overconfidence, in that ‘I’m so hot and sexy and obviously am too good for you so be grateful that I am even sitting at the same table with you’ way does not help. Men are like small time bullies, in that they will pounce at the smallest sign of insecurity but will recoil in horror and run away with their tails between their legs at a show of strength. I think men prefer walking to Wal-Mart as opposed to climbing the dating equivalent of Mount Everest.

Related to this is something I have observed in myself, a kind of defensiveness (or offensiveness) that creeps into my conversations with men. Say I go out a few times with this guy, right? And he asks if I want to get together again on Friday. My answer would immediately be a coolly said, “Sure. If you want,” which makes him sound needy and shows, possibly that I am being condescending or worse, instead of “Yes!” which will, in effect, make him feel wanted.

So why, as I am sure David is asking, the reason for this blog? No, it’s not a spur of the moment thing. And yes, Andy, our conversation did have something to do with it. Now wipe that smug smile off your face.

Lastly, I would like to paraphrase Terry Pratchett on something that I kinda wish would happen to me. Taken from Thud!...the ‘Jerk’ syndrome.

“…sometimes a woman is so beautiful that any man with half a brain isn’t going to think of asking her our, okay? Because it’s obvious that she’s far too grand for the likes of him. So a guy who hasn’t got half a brain, a man to whom shame holds no shame, who is so used to women saying ‘no’ when he asks them out that he’s not afraid of being told off, asks her, because he figures, why not? And she, who by now thinks there’s something wrong with her, is so grateful she says okay.”

And then, in my dream world, they end up being perfect for each other, fall in love and live happily ever after.

P.S - Your dream to appear on my blog has now come true, Andy.

All Hail Youtube!

Art thys thyng workyng? Oooh - it does work. I have successfully embedded a video from Youtube unto my blog. Hail ME!

The reason for the sudden posting of the above video is because I have discovered the wonders of Japanese traditional music. Also because Maddy made a joke about samurai swords which of course led me (the person with no life whatsoever) on a Youtube quest.

If you find this song/music familiar, it's because it was in the Japanese Pearl Harbor planning thing in that crap movie Pearl Harbor, which was nothing compared to Tora! Tora! Tora! which remains my No.1 favorite war movie ever.

Incidentally, my life ambition is now to become a Sith Lord. Stupid guys at work have totally corrupted me, so much so that my display picture on Messenger is someone called Darth Nihilus (I chose him because that mask is so freaking cool). In case you do not know who Darth Nihilus is, fret not, for Wikipedia has enlightened me and so it shall enlighten you!

And Maddy has been kind enough to provide this for me to share with you.

The lyrics are here...

I’m just a regular everyday normal guy…Nothin’ special bout me Mutha Fucka.
I’m just a regular everyday normal guy…When I go to the clubs I wait in line Mutha Fucka.
I’m just a regular everyday normal guy…I got $600 in da bank Mutha Fucka.
I’m just a regular everyday normal guy…And my sexual performance is an average.

I work at customer service
for a phone company,
I make 12 bucks an hour
but that’s all I need.
I live in a small apartment
on a quiet street
I don’t go out too much
I like to watch TV
I cant afford a car
I use public transportation
I don’t mind
I read till I reach my destination
sometimes a newspaper, sometimes a book
the amount of money I save,
this shit is off the hook

And I’m not very good with the women
I’m a pretty shy person
and I’m average looking
last time I had sex was in 2003
and I’m ashamed to admit it
but it wasn’t free

I’m just a regular everyday normal guy…I get nervous in social situations Mutha Fucka.
I’m just a regular everyday normal guy…I get constipated once a month Mutha Fucka.
I’m just a regular everyday normal guy…And i make pretty good spaghetti sauce Mutha Fucka.
I’m just a regular everyday normal guy..and I get scared when I go see da dentist.

I’m da “Pauly Shore” of everyday life
easily forgettable
and I’m not very liked
I have an “According to Jim” personality
I’m as entertaining as a fuckin’ STD

If you wanna mess with me
I think you probably can
because I’m not confident
and i am weak for a man
I’ll just roll up in a ball
while you kick me in da back, yeah
honestly I probably wont fight back
And I don’t have any friends
that would back me up
My friend Steve would
but he doesn’t look very tough.

Steve - “You want some of this bitch?”

If you rarely get laid
put your hands up
If you’re not well paid
put your hands up
If you got a pet cat
put your hands up
and if you got a bad back
put your hands up

Jon - “I hurt my back 2 summers ago moving a fridge and ever since then it just not da same …you know it… it gets pre…It gets pretty sore!”

I’m just a regular everyday normal guy…My parents are really nice people Mutha Fucka.
I’m just a regular everyday normal guy…I’m somewhat afraid of heights Mutha Fucka.
I’m just a regular everyday normal guy…I like da show greys anatomy Mutha Fucka.
I’m just a regular everyday normal guy…and I’m pretty good at making paper planes.

Steve - “I could do this all day! I could do this all day! I could do this all day!”

Join me in hailing Youtube as the God for Bored People!!!

PS...Maddy Buckley is like the most AWESOME person ever!!! She's pretty, and hotter than me, and like all round coolest chick! She's da MAN!!!

Work

Work. The W-word, the most dreaded work in my dictionary. I hate working, but after much soul searching and much pressure from good ol' Dad, I decided, by myself, to find a temporary job.

Long story short, I got a job at a computer store despite the fact that I know nothing about computers. I suspect that the owner only hired me because I am, and I say this with no trace of immodesty, perfect eye candy for the customers who frequent his, in his words..."humble establishment."

This is somewhat insulting for me to say, considering the fact that I am not the most interesting person out there, but my fellow coworkers are nerds. Geeks. And proud of it. On my first day, they proudly proclaimed that they would make it their sacred duty to ensure that I would be...nerdified.

I say this not as an insult, but as a term of endearment. I have nothing against nerds and geeks. In fact, I watched the Call of Duty Modern Warfare E3 Demo Trailer thingy on Youtube earlier today and was impressed at the graphics and the clarity and whatever. I also watched a Star Wars game trailer. And as you probably know, I am a Spore addict. I have tried multiple times to make an Andalite on Spore.

My first day was nothing special. Actually, it was. I have discovered that people, when confronted by facts such as RAM and nVidia graphic card version xXx and dual core processor and whatever, will immediately pretend to know what I am talking about.

See - if you confess your technological illiteracy, you will get two things. First, a vastly superior smile from the salesperson...OR...the sort of smile that moves quickly towards drowning swimmers and has a fin on top. Secondly, an explanation such as below...

"Another thing you have to know is the L1 and L2 cache, or on-chip memory. Processors come with a small array of RAM (random access memory, we'll discuss system RAM a little later) built in. The L2 cache resides on the CPU outside of the microprocessor, the L1 cache is incorporated within the microprocessor. A CPU can access the L1 cache faster than any other memory in your computer. Next in line is the L2 cache. To access the main system memory, the CPU has to go through the motherboard, and even further away are the sound and video memory. L1 cache is not generally promoted as a feature of the chip but the specs are readily available. The L2 cache varies greatly from chip to chip, usually from 128 kilobytes (1 KB = 1024 bytes, 1 byte = 8 bits, a bit can hold a boolean value (0 or 1), thus a byte can hold a value from 0 to 255) to 2 megabytes (1 MB = 1024 KB). The L2 cache serves as a half way point between the L1 cache and the main system RAM. Larger L2 caches mean more information can be placed very close to the CPU for use, and the CPU can execute commands much faster. Get it?"

Who in their right mind would want to subject themselves to something like that?

My Favorite Non Pratchett Quotes

"The male is a domestic animal which, if treated with firmness, can be trained to do most things."

-Jilly Cooper

“Music… washes away the dust of everyday life from the soul.”

– Unknown

“We have to laugh, scream and smile to survive.”

–Anonymous

“What lies before us, and what lies behind us is tiny compared to what lies inside us.”

–Emerson

“Each second we live is a new and unique moment of the universe, a moment that will never be again.”

–Pablo Casals

“Love is a single soul dwelling in two bodies.”

–Aristotle

“Laughter… is the music of the soul.”

–Anonymous

“Hope sees the invisible, feels the intangible and achieves the impossible.”

-Anonymus

“Follow the Voice of your spirit remember to dream listen to the wisdom of your soul hear your heartbeat and dance.”

–Anonymous

“You are today where your thoughts brought you… you will be tomorrow where your thoughts take you.”

– James Allen

“Nothing exists that so fills and binds the heart as love does.”

–Anonymous

“Shoot for the moon… so even if you miss, you land among the stars.”

-Unknown

“I don’t know if I’m getting over you or just getting used to the pain.”

-Anonymous

"Dumb blonde jokes don't affect me because I know I'm not dumb. I also know I'm not blonde."

-A Blonde

A Window

There are times when I feel like my life is just one big dream. And then I wonder just whose dream it is and whether that person was enjoying it – there are some people who just enjoy watching the suffering of others.

Anyways – this is a blog, right? And the basic point for the existence of blogs is for you to tell people about your day, basically. Of course, there are those who write about deep stuff with philosophical or political connotations in their blogs. And since I am incapable of writing something of that caliber, I shall simply have to settle for writing something less than extraordinary. Something…ordinary.

And also because I have realized (with the help of Rear End Admiral David Williams) that I have not blogged recently. So today, I shall tell you about a window. I wrote this for my college admissions essay (about leadership)…so enjoy.

The window belonged to my sixth grade class. I attended a Catholic grammar school where all students were required to attend summer school, and unfortunately, the building lacked air-conditioning. It got extremely hot, but fortunately, I inhabited one of the coveted “window seats”. Not only the source of a refreshing breeze, the window also provided my joy during the boring summer school days. While the rest of the class recited vocabulary words, I was far away. Some days I would be outside playing jump rope with the kids who were out of school. Other days I would be standing outside the school, eating an ice-cream cone and laughing at the students who were stuck in classrooms.

That image appealed to me most as I sat in the classroom one day, letting the window work its magic on me. The teacher stood behind her podium, giving the class a talk about business management. Melancholy sighs, the rustle of paper fans in use, and an occasional snore filled the room. Still, the teacher talked on and on. Suddenly a burst of laughter and cheers from outside filled the room. Recess time! That one precious time when we got to breathe fresh air and leave the confines of our desks. The sight of the other children playing right outside my window, the teasing of the slight breeze, and the unbearable conditions of the class had a powerful effect on me.

When the teacher saw a couple of us staring out the window, she said, “Anyone who wants to leave can leave.” Those words sounded like music, although her tone implied that she really meant, “Stop staring out the window because you’re not leaving this class.” What happened next shocked everyone, including myself. Me, the nice, quiet, obedient girl got up and ran into the coatroom, shaking the entire time. I pressed myself against the wall, trying to get a grip on what I’d just done. Seconds later, two other girls joined me. The three of us began giggling nervously and whispering, “I can’t believe we did that.” Other students quickly joined us, and soon fifteen of us filled the coatroom. Realizing we had to leave, we filed out of the coatroom, clutching our jump ropes, walking through the class where the teacher glared at us. Once outside, I still felt nervous, but I’d never felt so good. I had actually led this rebellion! What a thrill! It was my first taste of leadership, of setting my own example. This experience instilled in me the meaning of being a leader; one that has been refined over the years, but still remains with me today. Whenever I am asked to define leadership, I think of my sixth grade window and how it felt to laugh at the students stuck in class.

An Atheist Goes to Heaven

The eminent Dr. Richard Redherring passed away this morning after a tragic car accident.
Dr. Redherring distinguished himself in his early twenties by finally putting an end to theistic delusions and doing away with superstitious irrationality. Notable accomplishments include development of the aWave, a low level energy field that disrupted the religious experience in the human brain, air-tight proofs denying the existence of any sort of spiritual realm, and massively successful crusades against theism, mankind’s most harmful strain of mind-virus.
He is survived by his wife, Harriet, 41, and three adopted children, Jean, 7, Claude, 13, and Mike, 15. He was 36.

Richard was confused. Well, confuse may not be the most appropriate word given the context. Vexed with a side of confusion, perhaps. Disappointedly enraged may be another more appropriate phrase. Regardless, he wasn’t prepared or satisfied with his current situation. Being dead, that is. Dead and still hanging around.

Richard had felt that he lived a good, honest, atheistic life. He had done all in his power to rid the world of religious persecution and oppression. Heck, he HAD rid the world of religion. Like an avenging angel, pardon the terminology, he had torn asunder mankind’s greatest ill. So why wasn’t he dead? He should be gone. TKO’d. Ceasing to be.

Instead he was floating around a sunlit field filled to the brim with wildflowers. Really pretty wildflowers at that. The kind of wildflowers he used to pick at his grandmum’s house on cool Sunday afternoons. The bastards.

Through sheer force of will Richard lowered himself to the ground. Floating without means was patently impossible, so he wouldn’t hear of it. Once down, he took closer stock of his surroundings.

Yep, definitely a great, big, apparently unending field. Eerie cloudless blue sky, hazy horizon, aggravating wildflowers-- No matter which direction he turned everything was still very much the same. Closer examination of the wildflowers yielded similar results. They were all very pretty, all practically perfect, but all more or less the same.

“Dandy,” he muttered, and picked an arbitrary direction and started walking. No use standing around like a lump of clay when one should be dead, after all.

Richard walked.

After walking for a little while, Richard walked some more.

Afterwards, Richard continued to walk.

The field and flowers seemed the same no matter where he was. Always perfect, always unending, always as boring as his grandmum‘s old lectures about the great bearded man in the sky.

As can be imagined, this went on for quite some time. Richard had no idea how much time had actually passed, but it felt like a goodly amount. Not long enough to quell his frustration and bewilderment, but long enough to feel goodly. While many men would have shouted their frustration to the heavens, atheism be damned, Richard was never the type to engage in tomfoolery. Or really anything exciting and emotional for that matter.

A lot more time passed and Richard finally snapped. “Oh, bugger, where am I?” he quietly asked himself.

“Heaven” boomed a thunderous reply. "Well, no - I tell a lie. But this is pretty much what Heaven is gonna be like."

Richard jumped and managed to trip over his legs and faceplant into the ground. It didn’t hurt. Pushing himself off the ground he looked around, furtively. Still field. Still flowers. Still nothing. Right, must have been his imagination. He climbed back to his knees and brushed himself off.

Or he would have, had he not come face to face with an enormous figure leaning down to look him in the eye.

“Gyaaaaaaaargh!” he cried, as he stumbled back and fell, once again, without pain. Scrambling back up he turned and ran as fast as possible in the opposite direction. Not daring to glance behind him he kept running as long and as fast as possible…

Which turned out to be quite fast and for a rather long time. He kept running and only stopped when he risked a look and saw the figure was gone, replaced by an unending tide of wildflowers. Curiously, he wasn’t out of breath or tired in the slightest. Nor had he run like that since his college days. He filed it away under “What the hell is going on,” in his mind. He still bent over and clutched his side, forcing himself to breathe hard. Out of spite.

When he deemed that enough breathing had passed to warrant a good and proper physical recovery from such an exertion he lifted his head to look around again.

And once more came face to face with an enormous figure leaning down to look him straight in the eye.

Gyaaaaaaaaa--!” he cried, as he stumbled back and fell once again. Or tried to. No, really, he did his best to make contact with the ground, but it just wasn’t happening. He was floating again and couldn’t do anything about it.

“I can fly, you know,” the figure said, conversationally. Boomingly. Way too loudly.

“Grgh,” Richard replied, graciously.

“And teleport,” it continued.

“Ohgrh?” Richard inquired.

“Quite.”

“Argh.”

“I suppose you’re wondering where you are and why you‘re here,” it stated, still way, way too loudly for conversational English, or whatever dialect of This-Can’t-Be-Happening they were speaking. “Well, you’re a personality downloaded to a computer so your mind could survive after death. You‘re in a computer construct called ‘not-exactly-but-close-to-Heaven.’”

“Really?” Richard asked, shocked, but much more at ease.

“No. You’re dead” the figure boomed.

“Oh,” Richard said, downcast. “I guess that means…?”

“More or less, yes,” came the answer.

“And this is…?”

“Yep.”

“And you are?”

“Oh, well, just call me Hans. Or Hank. Or Hal. Whatever you prefer, I don’t put much stock in names.” Hans/Hank/Hal said. “Or Triple H. I like that, too. Not Stone Cold Steve Austin though.”

“All right, Mr. H, so, ah, I’m dead, right?”

“Right,” Triple H said.

“And this is… something like Heaven?”

“More or less.”

“And you’re god? Er, God. Whatever.”

Triple H let out a great and explosive laugh that rattled Richard’s teeth. “Oh, my no. Not at all. If I was The Big Guy your head would have exploded and we’d be mopping up this plane for years. I’m an underling. A caretaker, if you will.” Triple H pondered this for a moment. “I guess I’m an angel.”

“Right… Right.” Richard said, taking a closer look at him. He certainly fit the profile of an angel. Tall, androgynous, wings, flowing white robe. All that theistic crap. Well, not crap. Ok, that theistic notcrap. Where does an atheist turn when he’s overwhelmed? “So, uh, you get out much?” Richard asked, making conversation.

“Oh, you know, for famines, plagues, slaughtering the unbelievers… I’m always game for those. Great opportunities to catch up with old friends,” Triple H boomed, nonchalantly.

Richard nodded his head for lack of anything else to do.

“Richard, I’m kidding.”

“Right.”

Triple H coughed, unceremoniously, and pulled out a scroll from his robe. “Enough with the pleasantries, I suppose? Right then. Richard M. Redherring of Manchester, England, son of Samuel, son of Arthur, son of Clydesdale, son of the son of the son of the son of, etc etc, the son of Seth, the son of Adam, the son of God -- This is you, right?” Triple H stopped to affirm.

“Uh, yes. Quite. Doctor Richard M. Redherring.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Doctor Richard M. Redherring, the man who invented the aWave, put an end to the ‘god delusion’ and finally set humanity on the right track to truth?”

“Uh, hem, haw… Yeah. I suppose.” Richard was doing his very best to be modest. He didn’t want to brag too much to Triple H about how he had disproved the existence of angels and any possible god or afterlife.

“Great! We’re in business, then. The Big Guy has a few questions He wanted me to ask you.” Triple H rolled the scroll back up, tucked it away, and proceeded to sit down on an invisible chair that seemed to float menacingly high above Richard. He pulled out a clipboard and a quill.

“Oh, yes, of course, happy to oblige him. Er, well, Him,” Richard strained out. “Anything I can do to help.” This notcrap was killing him. Again. Or something.

“Okie dokie, first of all, do you believe in God?” boomed the first question in what promised to be the most mind-bashingly fun time of Richard’s life. Notlife. Whatever.

“No. Well, yes. I mean, there is no evidence to say that…” Richard stopped and looked around. “Well, yes, I suppose.”

“Mmmhmm,” Triple H murmured, scribbling in some notes. “Good, good. Did you ever think that He did NOT exist?”

Through Richard’s mind flashed news story after news story covering the advent of the aWave and the speeches he had given as the Hero Atheist after successful crusades against theistic belief. “Well, I suppose there may have been a time… A few times in my life where I happened to… Advocate such beliefs, yes.”

Triple H frowned a little as his quill scratched up and down the clipboard. “I see, I see. And did you happen to pull the rug out from under every belief system on the planet with your invention of the ‘aWave’?”

Richard took some deep breaths and carefully responded “I might have… had something to do with that. I seem to remember this ‘aWave’ you speak of.” 1600 diagrams and 40 prototypes paraded past his vision. Great flashing bulbs and the shaking of hands. Richard Dawkins smiling from ear to ear, pumping his fist up and down. Adoration of the masses.

“Just a small role, I’m sure,” Triple H consoled, the quill moving furiously up and down. This activity went on a few moments longer than before. “During this time in your life, short I’m sure, did it ever occur to you that their might just be, oh I don’t know, some kind of reason… some kind of greater meaning to why so much of humanity was hardwired into believing in God?”

“Well, I mean, there are so many-- I mean, at the time I’m sure I felt that there were just so many beliefs and religions that it must be some kind of general defect… or something. Evolution gone awry.” At evolution Triple H’s eyebrows rose slightly.

“Indeed,” he said, taking very few notes this time. “Right, then, last question. Why are you here?”

The question pushed Richard, already pretty unstable at this point, off balance. “What?” he asked, stupidly.

“Why are you here? Heaven?” Triple H expounded.

“Uhm. I suppose it’s because I led a good, honest life. I was… True to myself and my convictions? Did good where I saw a helping hand was needed. That’s gotta count for something, right?” Richard squirmed in his invisible chair. The angel looked at him levelly.

“You are aware that your invention tore away comfort and security from billions of people worldwide, right?” Triple H asked him, coolly.

“Well, yes, that is, some sacrifices had to be… I mean, all for the sake of truth. Well, empirical evidence. You know, where the compass hand was pointing and…” Richard trailed off in the face of the massive and imposing angel that happened to be sitting with him in an infinite field of flowers while he should be very, very dead.

“So why do you think you’re here?” Triple H asked, again.

“Because God wants me here?” Richard said, frustrated.

“Exactly!” beamed the angel. “Now you’ve got it.”

“Great,” Richard enthused.

Triple H stepped to the ground and started walking. Richard hopped after him, jogging to keep pace with the angel’s great strides.

“H-hey, where are you going?” Richard asked, nervously.

“We’re going to put you back down on Earth, Doctor Richard M. Redherring. It just so happens your aWave generators have met with unexplainable disasters and theistic belief is at an all time high.” He coughed. "God does that sometimes."

“You’re putting me back? But, I’m dead. Aren’t I supposed to be judged? Thrown into a lake of fire? Something?”

The angel stopped. “Well, hey, if that’s what you want--”

“No, no!” Richard placated, “Quite all right. Let’s do what you want to do.”

“Oh. Ok. Good. We’re going to have you get born somewhere in Rome. You’re going to make a great pope.”

Why I am NOT Terry Pratchett

Space - a collection of galaxies hanging against a backdrop of darkness. There is no end to this darkness, it just goes on and on and on (bearing an eerie similiarity to daytime soaps).

Planets revolve around suns in spiral galaxies, following some ancient law set down by the Creator when He made the universe and the multiverse within and without (sort of like a Venn diagram but with quantum added for good measure). This is a law that is absolute. Well, almost absolute.

They say that the universe began with a bang. A big bang. Scientists of various species have spent countless years trying to listen to the last strains of that big bang. Sometimes, they finally hear it and get very excited, despite the fact that knowing how the universe came into being serves no real practical purpose. But they would be especially disappointed if that sound had been translated into their language equivalent, because of what it meant.

BANG, in the language of the Creator, actually meant...OOOPS.

There is another echo, tailing along the wake of the star turtle Great A'Tuin, upon whose shell were four giant elephants that carried, on their massive backs, the Discworld, home of such wonders like Cori Celesti and the Counterweight Continent and, despite the best efforts of everything else, the twin city of Ankh Morpork.

This echo is slightly different from BANG. It said, quite simply...DAMN.
___________________________________________________________________


There is a room that brought to mind other words ending with "-oom", like "loom" and "gloom" and "doom". This is the room where the life timers are stored, rows after rows of hourglasses, some small, some big, with sand trickling down collectively so that the general effect was like that of an examination hall while the papers were being collected.

Death clicks on the black and white tiled floor on toes of bone, muttering inside his cowl as his skeletal fingers count along the rows of busy hourglasses. Occasionally he picks one up, always one whose sand was running out, and tucked it into the dark recesses of his robe.

A bony finger touches an hourglass, hesitates for one brief moment, before reaching out to grasp it in a pearly white fist. Two twinkling eyes regard it solemnly, and then Death sighs, sounding like the inrushing of air into a long enclosed tomb.

ANKH MORPORK, Death says in a voice like lead slabs dropping on granite. OH...

___________________________________________________________________

"...bugger," someone says, when he wakes up to find himself in the place to which Hell was the next best thing. (Death isn't actually that someone who has just woken up, because this is a cinematic trick adapted for print. Pretty cool, eh?)

Ankh Morpork, a city of such depravity that the only reason the Creator has not destroyed it is because Hell might close down one day and He needs somewhere else to put its denizens in. A city that, despite dragons and wild ideas and Things from the Dungeon Dimensions, continues to exist. Even thrive, in a way that a fire thrives in an oil rig.

Ankh Morpork; Citie of ay Thousand Surprises and Delights. Very often, it came as a surprise and a delight that you were still alive.

For the moment, anyway.

Death isn't really that fond of Ankh Morpork, but then again, did not really dislike it anyway. Depraved it may be, a melting pot of cultures where anything and everything unpleasant bobs to the surface, you could not deny the sheer vibrancy of life in the big city. Of course, being on Duty in Ankh Morpork was like being the lone cashier on the last day of a major sale, but Death was never one to complain.

He glanced at the dead body on the ground, and nods as the ghost of the recently deceased rises up and fades away without uttering a single sound. There were people like that sometimes, who did not bother with the usual "Why did he have to stab me like that?" and the "What happens after this?" routine, just like there are people who paid their taxes without uttering a single word of complaint. Death enjoyed conversation, but one can only take so much of the same question before growing tired of it.

Well, the Duty was done, and He had nothing to do. Then again, He was in Ankh Morpork, home of the Mended Drum and the Shades. Even an anthropomorphic personification could find something to do here.

___________________________________________________________________

It was a typical solicitor's office. It was, for one thing, quite large, and simply furnished with very expensive things. Bronze and brass and silver were very much in evidence, with all their surfaces polished to such a high degree that you could see your face on it - whether you wanted to or not. It was so bright that when the light reflected on it, both the surface and the light went "Ting!"

And this is where I run out of ideas on what to write.

Thus, you see the reason why I am not Terry Pratchett.

The Way We Do Things At Home

“All right,” my dad announces to the world in general and to his two stay-at-home-until-we’re-thirty daughters in specificality, “Who wants to help me get some gardening done?”

You could hear a pin drop in the attic in the silence that follows. And then, if you are listening carefully, you can hear the sound of two pairs of eyes performing an immediate impression of the Floorboard and Ceiling Inspectors Synchronized Observation Team. It’s like being in a classroom when the teacher asks a question to which nobody knows the answer to. No one wants to meet his gaze.

“Come on,” he says, glaring at each one of us in turn, “It’s a nice day, and you’re not doing anything important, are you? So why not help me out a bit here?”

Because, Dad, while I am sure you have many amazing and noteworthy qualities, gardening does not count as a virtue to be shared with the world. Neither of us have inherited your inexplicable love for gardening. Because I personally have the same amount of talent in horticulture that you would find in a dead starfish. Or possibly even less, now that I reflect upon it. And because my sister; the same sister which you gifted me with thus removing me from my rightful place as the youngest daughter; is a lazy lying little brat.

All the above goes unsaid – but not unthought. Unfortunately in this case, it isn’t the thought that counts; it is the deed which remains sadly undone.

“I’m busy,” Paige replies from her position on the sofa, which can be summarized as this – her whole 5’4 frame lying supine across the entire length of the two seater cushioned furniture, a book lying upon her tummy. She continues to convey, by a careful modulation of her voice and a slight lifting of aforementioned book, that she is in fact urgently busy and that by merely talking to him; she is wasting precious seconds of her life which could have been put to better use.

“Busy?” my dad asks, arching an eyebrow and successfully conveying his skepticism and disbelief at her admission. “With what?”

“English homework,” Paige replies, lying with rattlesnake speed. “Read and summarize. Literature. Due Monday.” Her face is set in the firm steady gaze of the true liar. With eight words, she has transferred his attention away from herself. But my sister does not stop there – oh, no. When being chased by wolves, throw someone off the sledge; that’s her policy. Three words are all it takes. Three fatal words.

“What about Jess?”

My dad turns to me, his sphinx-like gaze transferring its unblinking sight upon my hapless body. But I am not helpless. I have had one year more in the world over you, Paige. One whole year’s worth of tric…I mean, experience.

“I’m busy too,” I reply, lifting my fingers off the keyboard of my laptop while allowing my eyes to occasionally flicker back on the white blueish screen, rather more effectively conveying the fact that what I am endeavoring to do is of such vital importance that taking my eyes off it would be tantamount to treason, sacrilege and making a joke about President Obama.

“Really?” Dad asks, his tone brimming with skepticism, dripping with sarcasm and heavy with a side order of resignation. “Class project, is it?” he asks, somewhat sourly.

I uncurl my feet from under my lap and turn the laptop around so that he can see the Online Database of Resources page, with the big university insignia and livery and logo and whatever. This is a metaphorical dropkick of information, complete with a piledriver of hard evidence. I turn to Paige and flash a smirk of superiority at her; the look on her face is one of annoyance. But I am flying now – positively flying.

“I don’t think ‘Private’ novel books (which is like Gossip Girl) counts as education board approved learning material. Is it, Paige?” I ask, keeping my voice carefully balanced with puzzlement and concern, wrapped in a plastic-thin cover of skepticism. Annoyance has turned to consternation, which I am especially pleased to see. And then her face changes ever so briefly, a fleeting look of triumph that makes her look more rodentlike then usual.

“Nor does Youtube figure much in your course, does it...Jessica?” she counters, and I mentally curse the browser tab that has suddenly started flashing for some reason. Any protestations or excuses which I could have mustered (and I could have mustered a few) are quickly suppressed by the flashing of the IM chat window at the bottom of the screen.

“Right,” my dad says. “I’m your father, and if the two of you are still planning to go to that party on Friday, you will get up and help me.” He pauses for dramatic effect (where else would we get our flair for dramatics?). “Now.”

A Starbucks Story

Digging for my sunglasses is always a production. I have a very large purse. Bottomless pit is the most apt description. I've never been a huge designer handbag fan just because there isn't enough room in them for anything. That's the problem with prices, in my humble opinion (although as Terry says, there is no such thing as a humble opinion). Take lingerie for example, right? The more it reveals, eg the less lingerie there is; the more it costs. Ever noticed that?

Sunglasses are small, and somehow they always manage to sink to the bottom, coming to rest on a ledge just before the purse drops off into nothingness. So I'm standing outside of my totally unnecessary class in the open air hallway of our Huge Classroom Building(aren't we creative here at Florida state??), sifting through the contents of my purse and finding everything but my sunglasses. This includes, but is not limited to, a bottle of water, a luna bar, three notebooks, a calculator, my wallet, both sets of keys (neither of which could be found earlier that day - because there is a law that states that when you want one particular thing, it is never, and I mean NEVER, to be found where you expect it to be), and a letter from the Florida Legislature informing me that since my purse has grown so large, I'm going to have to start paying property taxes on it (which would sooo be a Jay Leno joke - the one where he turns to Kevin Eubanks and adjusts his tie..."You know, Kevin...the economy is so bad..."

Anyways, after standing around like an idiot buried up to my arm in purse, I finally feel my fingers clasp around my little black plastic sunglasses. It was around this same time that the sky--previously filled with an overabundance of sunshine and blue skies--decided that it was cold and gathered some nice fluffy rain clouds around for warmth. Rain clouds, as you may know, are ridiculously social beings who insist on hugging and chatting upon meeting (very much like your mothers when you are 13 and above - the time when parents stop being everything that is good and start becoming magnets that attract embarassment by the bucketful), but who can deal out some serious lightening if need be. Sometimes I think maybe rain clouds are from Georgia. And so, just as I'm pulling my sunglasses out of my purse, the rain clouds' first "omg!it's so good to see you again!" of thunder boomed across the sky, rendering my sunglasses obsolete. Sighing, I let them careen back down into the bottomless pit filled with various examples of Shopping Misadventures and braced myself for raindrops.

(And so, David, you now learn that down here in Florida, the weather can change at the drop of a pair of sunglasses)

However, this is not my story; not really. Because not two seconds later I found myself--quite outside my own power--being drawn into Starbucks. This was partially because I needed to position all electronic items (and I carry a lot - cellphone, PDA, laptop, desktop computer, Blackberry, Blueberry, Bluetooth thingummies, Wii, Sony Playstation 1, 2 and 3, etc) into more secure, waterproof sections of my bottomless pit, and partially because I haven't slept for more than an hour or two in several days. But mostly it was because someone had just walked by me with a starbucks cup and I am a typical American and therefore am ridiculously susceptible to suggestions to buy things (which explains the abundance of unused merchandise in my house, which, I must point out, cannot solely be attributed to me. I have two sisters and a father who is a plumber and a hoarder).

So I run across the red-brick-road (I think it has some official name, like the Multicutural-Alum-Who-Donated-A-Lot-Of-Money-Memorial-Pathway-Of-Awesomeness or something, but I like red-brick-road better) to Starbucks just as the rain is really starting to pick up. Amazingly, there is no line. There is never a line at this Starbucks. I am convinced that this is a magical Starbucks, but that's another story. So I get in and stare at the menu. Really, I'm not in the mood for anything fancy. All I want is coffee. That's it.

It occurs to me at this moment that I've never actually just ordered coffee at a Starbucks before. Ever since that fateful day when I first stepped into a starbucks with my BFS (Bloody Fool of a Sister) at the tender age of 14, I've always ordered some exotic weird blended…thingie. Today, however, I am in no mood for frills. Today, I just want some coffee. And I have no idea how to ask for it.

And so I panic. Because that's kind of how I roll. I stand there in the doorway, mind blank, not sure what to do. It seems like there's a big, blinking neon sign that says, "Coffee Ordering Novice! Point and laugh!" hanging above me. I'm not sure why this would bother me, or why it would be a big deal…but when you're in Starbucks--especially a magical Starbucks like this one-priorities change. You find yourself spending large quantities of money on exotic blended teas and cute little mugs with the Starbucks logo on them. You buy big machines shiny with stainless steel that, while you're not sure what they do, certainly look magnificent on your kitchen counter and make a great deal of rather splendid noises. Until the thing explodes because you've let the pressure build up too much and you're left with a five-foot hole in your ceiling. The world outside and whether anything you're doing makes sense really have no bearing in Starbucks. Like Vegas, what happens in Starbucks, stays in Starbucks. If Starbucks had a slot machine and an Elvis marriage chapel, Vegas would be out of business faster than a shot of espresso enters the bloodstream.

In essence - Starbucks is America.

But eventually I pull myself together. Casually, I walk up to the counter, studying the menu. I figure that if I can just give myself enough time walking up to the counter, I can figure out what to say. However, it doesn't take that long to transverse the six feet to the counter, no matter how slowly you walk, and in mere seconds I'm standing next to the register, still looking blankly at the menu.

"What can I get for you. Ma'am? Ma'am?"

I transfer my blank stare from the menu above to the girl's face below and mumble something like, "Um….yeah…"

Starbucks-girl favors me with an expression that says, "Look, sweetie, I've been here since 6, I haven't had a break, I haven't eaten since 5, please just order something so that you can get on with your life and I can get on with mine otherwise I might just have to kill you."

"I want some coffee," I finally manage.

"Coffee?" she replies, incredulous.

"Yes. Coffee." I say, more firmly this time.

She sighs in the back of her throat, a slightly strangled noise.

"What size?"

"Umm…" I glance at the coffee sizes next to me, "Venti." I usually never get anything above a tall, however, I've got a gift card, I might as well go all out.

"What kind of coffee?"

"Um…"

"Mild? Bold? Decaf? Regular? Semi-Caf? Arabian bold? African semi-bold, partly-mild? Lithuanian surprise?"

She continued listing coffee varieties, but I felt myself glazing. My brows climb up into frightened little V's as I try to follow all the types of coffee and I'm certain that I'm resembling a deer in the headlights. It's like staring up a mountain and seeing the snow start to slide down in a wave that just grows bigger and bigger and bigger - it's coming for you; you know it's coming for you; but your legs just won't move! She's going to expect an answer at the end - and my mind is unable to process the amount of information it is receiving. The wave is coming. Coming...COMING.

"Umm…pick one?" I said after a moment, no longer sure of what was going on.

"Yes," Starbucks-girl says, taking a deep breath and steadying her hand on the counter in front of her, "Pick one. Which do you want?"

"Whichever, I don't care. Ummm…bold?"

"Pike Place Bold or Arabian Bold?"

"Uhhh…The first one."

"Hot or iced?"

"Hot…?"

"Room for cream?"

I'm starting to feel vaguely like I'm being interrogated, like I am being coffeeboarded or something (which I realize is a very lame and possibly insensitive joke but see if I care), but manage to choke out an emphatic "Yes!" Quite inexplicably, the girl ordering coffee next to me says brightly, "Good choice!" I look over at her, unsure if she's talking to me or not. See, at FSU, strangers don't really talk to each other. Friends don't even really talk to each other. They talk OVER each other. It's a Florida thing. It's just one of our traditions and we're proud of it. So I was really quite surprised when this girl in a flouncy, blue paisley shirt spoke to me.

"I cream and sugar the daylights out of my coffee," I mumble in her general direction--what else could I say? How does one respond to someone actually talking to them???

"Oh, me too, me too." Paisley shirt says, before wandering away to the condiment bar to do just that.

Meanwhile, Starbucks-girl has shoved a large cup of coffee for which I meekly thanked her. Now it's her turn to look confused. I doubt anyone had said that all day. People don't really say thank you at FSU, either. It's another time honored tradition. I keep forgetting - I guess I'll never be a true 'nole.

So mulling on my failures as a Florida State Seminole, I'm over cream and sugaring the crap out of my coffee. This takes a really long time, especially when one has randomly selected the "bold venti" coffee and in that time someone else comes up from behind to stand with me and blue paisley-girl. You know how some people seem to carry a cloud of angry around with them? This chick is stomping over with an entire hurricane's worth. The first thing she does is tip some of her coffee into the trash can.

"I can't believe this," she says, flipping off the top off her coffee and glaring at it. "What the...? You call that room for cream?" She tips more of it into the trash. Paisley Girl clucks disapprovingly at Angry Chick. Forebodings fill me again.

"Well," Paisley says, "They forgot to put the vanilla flavoring in mine, but you don’t see me complaining, do you? Gosh, cut them some slack." With this she flounces off in a cloud of paisley ruffles, leaving me stranded with Angry Chick.

"B****." Angry chick growls, reaching for the other bottle of half-and-half.

I make some kind of, "Ach! Omg!" noise in response to her cursing at a complete stranger, to which Angry Chick replies:

"Well, she's lucky I didn't say it to her face. I don't get it, why do people always have to get in everyone else's business? I hate it. This is why I never go out in public."

I toyed with the idea of mentioning that it was Angry Chick who had put herself out there by talking in the first place, but eventually decide against it. I don't want to die today. Come to think about it, I don't ever want to die. Ever. Instead, I shrug, reach for a packet of sugar and say, "Well, I just don't ask questions."

"Yeah, I guess. But, like, I've got three exams tomorrow and I'm not prepared at all and I've been studying all week and I totally don't have time for some nobody to be all up in my face, judging me."

Again, what does one say to this? We don't talk to each other at FSU, and now suddenly not one, but two people keep talking to me!

"I have three exams tomorrow, too." I say, for lack of any better reply.

"Yeah? Sucks doesn't it?"

"Mmmhmm," I nod emphatically, "definitely."

Angry-then Chick takes a long, long drag of her coffee, closes her eyes and--much to my astonishment--smiles. Her cloud of angry suddenly evaporates and her entire countenance seems to change--it's kind of like that scene at the end of Disney's Beauty and the Beast when the Beast gets transformed back into a not-quite-ugly Frenchman--light shining out all over everything. But the smile remains, and when she opens her eyes again, they're shining.

I, meanwhile, am stopped midway through dumping a pack of sugar into my coffee, mouth hanging wide open at the transformation.

"Well," she says, popping the lid back onto her cup, "It was nice meeting you...have a super awesome day and good luck on your exams!!"

I nod mutely and she skips--skips!--away.

And that, mes p'tites, is my real story: how coffee, against all odds, can sooth the savage college student.

So what can we learn from this? And how do we relate it to real life? It's obvious. Instead of closing Guantanamo Bay, which will cost us a couple of million dollars, I think - we should open a Starbucks inside there. Give those detainees a true taste of America. Show them why we rule. Introduce them to the wonders of Wii. Sit them down on a couch, give them a packet of chips to munch on and let them watch daytime soaps. Then release them.

Like little bees, they will go around to various terrorists cells and spread the good news. Come to America! Bring the wives! Bring the money! Bring the oil! Leave the bombs behind! And one by one, the world will fall at our feet.

A Short Story

It started, as these things so often do, with a death. Well, it did not so much start as begin. Actually, begin would probably be too strong a word for it.

The young man who had been killed was not really like the thousands of young men (and maybe one or two young women who have disguised themselves as young men – because this is a law of causality and has to happen) who routinely come down (or up, or from) various highlands and downlands and swamplands to the big city in order to make it…big.

What was different about this young man was that

a) He had been raised in humbler than humble surroundings

b) He had a sword which had been presented to him under mysterious circumstances and which was quite possibly magical.

c) Despite his humbler than humble surroundings, he was well fed and well built with a beautiful complexion and absolutely no facial flaws whatsoever.

d) His parentage was unknown (baby left outside a doorstep with lightning shaped scar on forehead sort of thing)

e) He practically drips destiny and fate from every pore on his body.

f) He was dead.

Because of factors (a) to (e), it was obvious that this young man with absolutely no education in statecraft and warcraft and law and lore was destined for great things, eg saving a princess and winning a kingdom, or, saving a kingdom and winning a princess – after which he would rule for many a year and the kingdom would enjoy a period of prosperity like never before. Because of factor (f) the law of absolute certainty of destiny was disproved. Just because you are destined to do great things does not mean that you actually get to achieve them.

Which means that it did not in fact start with a death. It ended with a death.

Thus, this is a very short story indeed.

Drive Camels, Not Cars

There are infinite reasons why a camel is a preferable mode of transportation to an automobile, mainly because they have thousands of uses other than just for transportation. Riding a camel is much less dangerous than driving a car, and also far less expensive. It is also a much better way to de-stress after a hard day’s work than fighting with rush hour traffic. They are very environmentally friendly and easy to maintain. After all, a camel is far more affectionate than a corvette.

Camels are extremely practical and efficient. Like I have said before, unlike vehicles, they can be used for many different things other than just taking us around from one place to another. For example, camel milk is very healthy; far more nutritious than that of a cow. It is lower in fat and lactose, and higher in potassium, iron, and Vitamin C. In some countries, camels are farmed almost exclusively for their nutritious milk, that is both delicious and healthy. Though it is a difficult and painstaking procedure, this milk can even be made into cheese.

Camels shed their hair every spring and grow a new coat by autumn. This hair is very valuable and is used for making clothing, paintbrushes, and rugs. Additionally, camels are known to be very capable of living on little or no food or water over long periods of time. This means the camel will still be fine if its owner can’t afford to feed it until next payday. However, this is a very rare situation as the camel is a very inexpensive and easy form of transportation.They are far cheaper than cars, both to buy and maintain. One can purchase a camel for a fraction of the price of a new car, and they can live up to fifty years with very little depreciation in value. Instead of consuming expensive fuel, camels would be more than happy to graze on a small patch of grass, weeds, or some thorny twigs. In fact, a camel can also be a very economic replacement for a lawnmower. They do not require any regular maintenance. They don’t need oil changes. They don’t need winter tires. If a camel gets in a collision with another camel, both drivers and their animals will almost certainly remain unscathed. If, for some reason, one of the camels becomes a write-off, it can be sold for meat instead of being towed to a junkyard. Also, camels can be bred quite easily, so after the initial few purchases the owner will never have to worry about ever buying another camel. Any desirable traits can be carefully bred at a very low cost.

Camels have been a long-time friend of the ozone layer. Three thousand years before the birth of Christ, camels were an efficient and dependable mode of transportation. Any fumes they emit are harmless, and even their feces are an excellent fertilizer. There will never be any need for a hybrid, electric or solar-powered camel. Camels have never in any way contributed to global warming and will never begin to do so. They are also one of the safest vessels available for human transportation. One is not required to pass a test before driving a camel, nor is it enforced by law to wear a seatbelt while riding one. There are very few reported cases of road rage between drivers of camels, and it is more likely for a camel driver to wave cheerfully at other riders than make a rude gesture at a camel rider who has unfairly taken his right-of-way. There is no such thing as a camelback high-speed chase, and it would be very difficult for a robber to find a decent getaway camel.

Automobiles come in a very distant second when compared to camels for overall usefulness, price economy, and safety. Camels are responsible for far less stress and grief on behalf of their owners than cars. They are simple, efficient and easy to maintain. They are friendly and affectionate, and can fit into virtually every parking space in any lot. Owners will never become jealous of their neighbours with the brand new red two-door sports camel with an eight cylinder five-point-seven liter engine, custom paint job and chrome detailing. There is no doubt; camels are truly the superior form of transportation.

Nothing

The fifth edition of the Collins Concise Dictionary lives up to its name and succinctly defines ‘nothing’ as ‘no thing, not anything’. Frankly, I think whoever typed that in the dictionary should’ve just left it as a blank space: it would’ve been for the best, because the definition given in Mr. Fifth-edition-of-the-Collins-uber-Concise-Dictionary could possibly cause brain aneurysms or, at the very least, yelling of “Thank you, Captain Obvious!”


Apparently, yelling one’s gratitude to Captain Obvious, the unmasked hero of all things blatantly, explicitly overt, is not acceptable behaviour for when one is researching ‘nothing’ in the school library, and nor is having a brain aneurysm in the reference section. Both require messy lawsuits to cover them up, so, to avoid such catastrophes, it is probably recommended to follow normal procedure and disregard the dictionary definition in favor of making up your own.


But how can you define ‘nothing’? The word ‘nothing’ is a noun, which strongly suggests that it refers to something. But to what does it refer? What is this great, mysterious ‘nothing’ to which men allude when asked if anything’s wrong, and how is it the same ‘nothing’ that politicians give us, even though they promise not to? Is this the same ‘nothing’ that philosophers allegedly discuss, day in and day out, searching the answer to? How, then, is the answer to ‘nothing’ so often ‘nothing’? How is nothing an absence of something if so many things revolve around it?


One must not forget that a noun is a thing. Is ‘nothing’ a tangible object to be held, thrown, cherished, destroyed, trampled upon, drawn, written upon, drank, watched, sheltered under, worn, displayed in a glass case, or ridden upon?


Perhaps ‘nothing’ is invisible. Or perhaps ‘nothing’ does not even exist. When you’re sitting at a desk, picking listlessly at your nails or drawing little caricatures of the teacher in lieu of taking notes, and said teacher comes up behind you and booms in your ear, “What are you doing?”, you’re so relieved that he hasn’t seen the less-than-flattering picture you drew of him that you blurt out, “Nothing!”. But of course that isn’t true. Even if you deny all knowledge of your artwork or mini-manicure, even if you pretend you weren’t daydreaming, you’re still doing something. At this very moment, nobody is doing ‘nothing’, not even if they’re sitting perfectly still. You’re sitting in a chair at a desk – ‘sitting’ is a verb, which indicates action. You’re blinking and breathing, your fingernails are growing, and blood is pumping around your body. You’re listening to me… No, you’re not.


If you believe that ‘nothing’ does not exist, you’re perfectly entitled to your opinion. However, just because I cannot prove that ‘nothing’ exists doesn’t mean that it doesn’t. As Carl Sagan said, “Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.” Perhaps ‘nothing’ exists and nobody can see it. Or perhaps it exists and it’s here right now, right in front of me, and I just refuse to see it.


Personally, I believe that nothing exists and that it’s incredibly important.


In a way, nothing is more important than anything, because without ‘nothing’, there can’t be something. And without anything, what you’re left with is… Nothing. So what I figure is that nothing is everything.


But that’s just because I am possessed with the strong belief that you can’t have anything unless there is an antithesis to it. In order for there to be good, there must be evil, and vice versa. There is an anti-classroom just like this one somewhere in the wide unknown of the universe, filled with… Nothing.


But, again, how can it be filled with nothing if nothing is nothing? It’s not like nothing is a great foamy froth or a sparkling purple liquid. It cannot be canned, diced or dissected. But how, then, can this empty box have nothing in it? Similarly, how can my dear, nameless friend’s hollow head contain nothing?


To quote a song by McFly; ‘I’m feeling down and I hate the sound of Nothing; what's the point in hanging around for Nothing?’ This song is, by the way, aptly titled, “Nothing”. So, does nothing have a sound? What does the sound of nothing sound like? Is it a clang, a beep, a high-pitched scream? Or is it silence? But then again, what is silence? Is silence the absence of sound, or is it a sound in its own right?


We are, friends, countrymen, and Romans, faced with a paradox. How can nothing be something if you say it’s nothing? And how can nothing be nothing if you say it’s something?


Quite plainly, nothing could be anything at any given time, but, as I said, it’s nothing. Nothing is full of potential, yet it has none at all. Nothing could be anything… But it’s not. Nothing is both greater and less than anything in the known universe.


Nothing is what a poor man has, a rich man needs (apart from therapy, a BMW Z4, and a good supply of champagne), and a dead man eats. Yet nothing is what the Harry Potter movies are good for, what an emo feels on every day of his dark, shadowed life, and what is better than freshly baked choc-chip cookies, ‘cause they’re teh best evahhh. Nothing is greater than God, more evil than the devil (or my sisters), and more annoying than horrible grammar (and, come to think of it, David). Nothing is hotter than yours truly, smaller than Daniel Radcliffe, and more awesome than Matt Giraud, the should-have-been-winner-of-American-freakin-Idol.


Having said that, even if you disagree with me completely, I hope you have gained a greater understanding of nothing. Nothing is just… Great.


I was seriously contemplating bringing something in to share with you all, but there wasn’t anything I could bring except nothing. So I did. And maybe next time, I’ll give you some. Wait, I already did.


P.S - totally unrelated to this blog entry...Ashlee, you are the absolute BEST Nothing can fully describe how perfectly awesome you are!