So let me figure this one out. One can mix up cramps for cancer? That sounds wicked fucking scary. So if I eat a pair of egg, cheese, and sausage sandwiches for breakfast, leftover steak for pre-lunch, two grilled roast beef sandwiches for real lunch, a pound of pistachios for a tweener, and top off my daily intake with a full dinner of Polo Marsala, two beers, and two diet cokes, it's not cramps. I had cancer Saturday night? Huh, I thought it was overeating.
...or...
Flat belly
Slim legs
Amazing butt
Get them in one amazing workout!
Really? One work out. Fuckin' A. One? I'm in, sign me up. It almost sounds too good to be true. I can workout once. I can do this.
...or...
Gorgeous for less; 67 best buys for your skin, hair, body and more! To get gorgeous for less, I should buy...67 products. Not counting toothpaste and deodorant, I'm gonna say, in my lifetime, I won't buy 67 total products. Skin, okay, requires lotion I suppose. Hair; shampoo. And okay, fine, conditioner. Body? If you count feet, Desenex for crud that grows between my toes. But what's the 'more' here? Elbows? Eyebrows? The taint? Is there a product that treats elbows and the taint? That would be novel.
...or...
Alicia Silverstone's Diet Makeover? Alright, can we agree on something? Alicia Silverstone's diet needed a make-over? I throw the flag on that one. She was hot ten years ago, remains hot today, and will die someday, but it will be a hot death. Did she blow up like a Sumo wrestler? Steak and cheese diet not work out for her? I guess I missed the day she was fat. But I feel pretty good stating her diet probably wasn't made over. Tweaked, maybe. But she looks to be pushing 100 lbs. now, so I bet we'd all be happy with either of her diets. And her genes. Can I have her genes, please?
For the record, I'm a dude. I am sitting next to a recent issue of Health Magazine, and I am going to go for broke here. I'm not the target audience the editors of Health had in mind for this issue. I'm pretty sad that my daughter and wife might be.
My tips for gorgeous for less, amazing ass, and cramps vs. cancer:
*get rid of your mirrors (free - can't get less than free)
*wear baggier pants (okay, not an amazing ass, just a well-hidden one)
*talk to your doctor for cancer diagnosis ($20 co-pay)
Who needs a magazine? I give this advice for free. Do you feel better yet? I do.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Forty is the New Black
A hundred years ago, forty was worth a big party. Hell, if you survived measles, polio, infections, pneumonia, and childbirth, you were something special. Nowadays, turning forty is as remarkable as turning, well, thirty-nine. So why do people get all nutty about forty?
My wife turns forty today. She's hotter now than she was ten years ago, and she was really cute then. She's more accomplished now. Wiser. Funnier. Deeper, reflective, patient, stronger... Who wouldn't want to turn forty, I gotta ask? At least if you could do it with her grace & style. She has done stuff that anyone would see as admirable, like raise two beautiful kids, be cast in a musical production, work full time, and all while putting up with me. Puh-lease. I know a lot of people that could never handle what she does, ever - at forty, or at any age. And frosting - she fits in clothes that she could have worn fifteen years, for Christ's sake.
She's not really special today. She is special everyday. For forty years, fifteen with me. I don't think a cake and a card really would be a fair reward, and since we just rebuilt our kitchen, we can't afford a treasure to match her. She just caught me staring at her. I acted dumb, as I was thinking mildly lewd thoughts and was distracted from my writing. A bit of blond hair is spilling out from her baseball cap, and it's sexy as hell. She is cleaning our new kitchen with 409 while I stare.
See, that's my point. I like her more and more. I find her more and more attractive. She's formidable, unpredictable and reliable, powerful and gentle. If she was sexy and funny at thirty-five, just imagine how incredible she is now? So everyday is worth a celebration. Today, it just comes with cake.
My wife turns forty today. She's hotter now than she was ten years ago, and she was really cute then. She's more accomplished now. Wiser. Funnier. Deeper, reflective, patient, stronger... Who wouldn't want to turn forty, I gotta ask? At least if you could do it with her grace & style. She has done stuff that anyone would see as admirable, like raise two beautiful kids, be cast in a musical production, work full time, and all while putting up with me. Puh-lease. I know a lot of people that could never handle what she does, ever - at forty, or at any age. And frosting - she fits in clothes that she could have worn fifteen years, for Christ's sake.
She's not really special today. She is special everyday. For forty years, fifteen with me. I don't think a cake and a card really would be a fair reward, and since we just rebuilt our kitchen, we can't afford a treasure to match her. She just caught me staring at her. I acted dumb, as I was thinking mildly lewd thoughts and was distracted from my writing. A bit of blond hair is spilling out from her baseball cap, and it's sexy as hell. She is cleaning our new kitchen with 409 while I stare.
See, that's my point. I like her more and more. I find her more and more attractive. She's formidable, unpredictable and reliable, powerful and gentle. If she was sexy and funny at thirty-five, just imagine how incredible she is now? So everyday is worth a celebration. Today, it just comes with cake.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Dear Mom & Dad,
I wrote God a few weeks ago, but he's a lousy pen-pal. No response, not even an e-mail. Sheeesh. Guess he's busy. Maybe I have the wrong address. Would you check for me? I haven't written you in a long while, so please excuse my poor manners.
I had a poignant memory of you today and wish your were closer, so we could have shared it together. I'm sure you feel the same way. It's silly really, but I got home from work today and our kitchen is totally finished. And I thought of you immediately. Instead of sitting in the new kitchen, I went outside and listened to the wind howl and watch the neighborhood trees contort. I remembered when you remodeled your kitchen and the pride you shared with us when you finished the project. You were so happy and felt so good about what you accomplished. We feel the same way, and I know some our success and accomplishment is due to you. So thanks for showing us the way. I just wish you could come over and have a cup a coffee and a long chat. A chat about anything. But you can't come over and I totally understand. But I can still wish it, right?
"C" is sitting at the peninsula doing her homework. The light is so good, it makes even doing homework feel nice. So you can imagine how cooking makes us feel. Mom, I can see you helping make the turkey at Thanksgiving. It makes a great mental picture, even if it won't happen this year. Mom, you would absolutely drop dead (sorry, awkward wording...) to see how much she's grown since you last saw her. She's starting to be a young woman, although most of the time she's still just a girl. She's so gentle, I wonder how I could be her dad, given that I'm an ox. But wondering aside, I'm really glad I am. Dad, she'd melt you in a minute, you softy. So far, were doing pretty good with her.
And "W"? He's great. Dad, he can throw a ball like no one's business. And he can draw! At seven, he puts pencil to paper and ideas just take shape. Is it wrong to be jealous of your kid's talent? And origami... he folds paper into shapes so graceful, intricate, and delicate. I'm in awe of his care and craft. Both kids miss each of you. Almost as much as I do.
So, that's about it. For today, anyway. I think of you far more often than I write. And I know you can't write as often as you wish, so don't feel bad. You would if you could. I hope you are happy and well. Say 'hi' to my brother, but I'm still mad at him. Love him, yes. Like him? Not yet. And if you see God, would you tell him I'm not writing until he does!
Love,
Odds
I had a poignant memory of you today and wish your were closer, so we could have shared it together. I'm sure you feel the same way. It's silly really, but I got home from work today and our kitchen is totally finished. And I thought of you immediately. Instead of sitting in the new kitchen, I went outside and listened to the wind howl and watch the neighborhood trees contort. I remembered when you remodeled your kitchen and the pride you shared with us when you finished the project. You were so happy and felt so good about what you accomplished. We feel the same way, and I know some our success and accomplishment is due to you. So thanks for showing us the way. I just wish you could come over and have a cup a coffee and a long chat. A chat about anything. But you can't come over and I totally understand. But I can still wish it, right?
"C" is sitting at the peninsula doing her homework. The light is so good, it makes even doing homework feel nice. So you can imagine how cooking makes us feel. Mom, I can see you helping make the turkey at Thanksgiving. It makes a great mental picture, even if it won't happen this year. Mom, you would absolutely drop dead (sorry, awkward wording...) to see how much she's grown since you last saw her. She's starting to be a young woman, although most of the time she's still just a girl. She's so gentle, I wonder how I could be her dad, given that I'm an ox. But wondering aside, I'm really glad I am. Dad, she'd melt you in a minute, you softy. So far, were doing pretty good with her.
And "W"? He's great. Dad, he can throw a ball like no one's business. And he can draw! At seven, he puts pencil to paper and ideas just take shape. Is it wrong to be jealous of your kid's talent? And origami... he folds paper into shapes so graceful, intricate, and delicate. I'm in awe of his care and craft. Both kids miss each of you. Almost as much as I do.
So, that's about it. For today, anyway. I think of you far more often than I write. And I know you can't write as often as you wish, so don't feel bad. You would if you could. I hope you are happy and well. Say 'hi' to my brother, but I'm still mad at him. Love him, yes. Like him? Not yet. And if you see God, would you tell him I'm not writing until he does!
Love,
Odds
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Just Listen to Yourself
Uh-oh. This is going to be a rant. I may sound like an OF, Republican, Angry White Guy, or Lou Dobbs. I'm channeling Dennis Leary. Hear me out.
Years back when I lived in Vermont, I was listening to the radio and heard a report (now infamous) about a women who successfully sued McDonalds because she burned the skin of her nether-parts with hot coffee. She stuck a Styrofoam cup of steaming hot Joe between her legs and drove away. Or started to, until through the normal operation of her motor vehicle, her thighs squished the cup and the molten coffee boiled her... well, parts.
For the record, I think McDonalds is in league with Satan. And styrofoam has a half-life that makes uranium look like a mayfly and will be in landfills until Hell freezes over, thaws out, and freezes again. But...
What kind of moron puts hot anything in their crotch? A stupid moron. Sort of like gettin' mad when you drip hot glue from a hot glue gun on your hand. It's called hot glue 'cause it is...hot fucking glue, numb-nuts. So, hot coffee parked in your special place?!? Well, duh.
When did needing someone else to pay for one's own stupidity, ineptitude, tom-foolery, natural ability, height, heart condition, or whatever else ails you become normal? If not "pay for", then replace it with "fix" or "solve" or any synonym for solve without the complaintant taking any responsibility for the alleged affront. And this is when I really sound like an OF, (Old Fucker for those not in the know), so get ready.
No, Kentucky Fried Chicken didn't make you fat. You made you fat. Or you and the genes your parents handed down. So sue yourself, fatass. No, pot holes don't get fixed in a timely fashion 'cause most towns and cities are broke, so vote for higher taxes, dumb-ass. That tar shit is pricey. No, you should pay $3.00 a gallon for gas. It's called supply and demand. They have oil, you want oil. So, sell your S.U.V. and buy a hybrid. Or walk, which - surprise, surprise - might help with your KFC issue, by the way.
Screwed up kids? No, it is probably not your school's fault. It is probably yours. No, really. Your teen is smokin' dope? Um, put down the scotch-rocks? You think your kid's teacher doesn't like your kid? Um, do you like your kid? If you won't raise your kid 'cause it is unrewarding, don't complain when the school tries -- and fails -- to do the job the way you want it done. If you want schools to do all the work, vote for higher taxes. And be prepared to not agree with everything that happens.
In favor of the war in Afghanistan? Vote for higher taxes. Them Predator drones? Nope, not free. Not free at all. Like the state of the VA nowadays? Who does? Do the math, friends. Two active wars, defense projects like the F-35, robotic weapon systems, and medical costs for head injuries suffered by the brave soldiers standing up to do the work we (...yes, we...) asked them to do. So, to quote from Good Fellas, "Fuck you, pay me." You want security and want it for free? Hey, that's funny.
Not in favor of the war? Exactly who, then, is gonna protect us from those who really do think America is fat, lazy, and arrogant? Or those who think of women as good for breeding and nothing else? Remember this - the Taliban killed the ideal of pluralistic schools in their homeland, as well as eradicating ancient, historically significant religious shrines that weren't their religious shrines. Pro or con war, we are going to pay. Pick your poison. But it is going to hurt.
See, this rant is about us. We want stuff, but we don't want to pay for it. We want to be taken seriously but act like children. Actually, most children act better than a lot of so-called grown-ups, but you know what I mean. We want good government but don't want to -- or can't -- understand making hard, compromising choices. Pundits mock universal health care in Canada or the U.K., but most of us couldn't tell anyone else thing one about universal health care. We want to be thinner, but our exercise regimen consists of walking to our car twice a day.
Schools don't teach values? Then you teach values. Politicians are all crooked? The run for fucking office! Want erectile function instead of dysfunction? Take Viagra but for the love of all things good, don't complain about your health care costs rising. At least something is rising that makes you happy, right? Gas too expensive? Drive less. Don't like you kid's soccer coach, volunteer to coach. Got a gut, do sit-ups. Boss an asshole? So what? Takes one to know one.
See, we all have complaints. Too often, we also seem to think someone else should take responsibility for them. We want our cake. But we don't want to pay for it and we want it nut & gluten free, too. Take a minute and stop yammering. Shhhhh. The problem, my friends, might not be "them" but "us". Just listen to yourself. I just don't want to.
Years back when I lived in Vermont, I was listening to the radio and heard a report (now infamous) about a women who successfully sued McDonalds because she burned the skin of her nether-parts with hot coffee. She stuck a Styrofoam cup of steaming hot Joe between her legs and drove away. Or started to, until through the normal operation of her motor vehicle, her thighs squished the cup and the molten coffee boiled her... well, parts.
For the record, I think McDonalds is in league with Satan. And styrofoam has a half-life that makes uranium look like a mayfly and will be in landfills until Hell freezes over, thaws out, and freezes again. But...
What kind of moron puts hot anything in their crotch? A stupid moron. Sort of like gettin' mad when you drip hot glue from a hot glue gun on your hand. It's called hot glue 'cause it is...hot fucking glue, numb-nuts. So, hot coffee parked in your special place?!? Well, duh.
When did needing someone else to pay for one's own stupidity, ineptitude, tom-foolery, natural ability, height, heart condition, or whatever else ails you become normal? If not "pay for", then replace it with "fix" or "solve" or any synonym for solve without the complaintant taking any responsibility for the alleged affront. And this is when I really sound like an OF, (Old Fucker for those not in the know), so get ready.
No, Kentucky Fried Chicken didn't make you fat. You made you fat. Or you and the genes your parents handed down. So sue yourself, fatass. No, pot holes don't get fixed in a timely fashion 'cause most towns and cities are broke, so vote for higher taxes, dumb-ass. That tar shit is pricey. No, you should pay $3.00 a gallon for gas. It's called supply and demand. They have oil, you want oil. So, sell your S.U.V. and buy a hybrid. Or walk, which - surprise, surprise - might help with your KFC issue, by the way.
Screwed up kids? No, it is probably not your school's fault. It is probably yours. No, really. Your teen is smokin' dope? Um, put down the scotch-rocks? You think your kid's teacher doesn't like your kid? Um, do you like your kid? If you won't raise your kid 'cause it is unrewarding, don't complain when the school tries -- and fails -- to do the job the way you want it done. If you want schools to do all the work, vote for higher taxes. And be prepared to not agree with everything that happens.
In favor of the war in Afghanistan? Vote for higher taxes. Them Predator drones? Nope, not free. Not free at all. Like the state of the VA nowadays? Who does? Do the math, friends. Two active wars, defense projects like the F-35, robotic weapon systems, and medical costs for head injuries suffered by the brave soldiers standing up to do the work we (...yes, we...) asked them to do. So, to quote from Good Fellas, "Fuck you, pay me." You want security and want it for free? Hey, that's funny.
Not in favor of the war? Exactly who, then, is gonna protect us from those who really do think America is fat, lazy, and arrogant? Or those who think of women as good for breeding and nothing else? Remember this - the Taliban killed the ideal of pluralistic schools in their homeland, as well as eradicating ancient, historically significant religious shrines that weren't their religious shrines. Pro or con war, we are going to pay. Pick your poison. But it is going to hurt.
See, this rant is about us. We want stuff, but we don't want to pay for it. We want to be taken seriously but act like children. Actually, most children act better than a lot of so-called grown-ups, but you know what I mean. We want good government but don't want to -- or can't -- understand making hard, compromising choices. Pundits mock universal health care in Canada or the U.K., but most of us couldn't tell anyone else thing one about universal health care. We want to be thinner, but our exercise regimen consists of walking to our car twice a day.
Schools don't teach values? Then you teach values. Politicians are all crooked? The run for fucking office! Want erectile function instead of dysfunction? Take Viagra but for the love of all things good, don't complain about your health care costs rising. At least something is rising that makes you happy, right? Gas too expensive? Drive less. Don't like you kid's soccer coach, volunteer to coach. Got a gut, do sit-ups. Boss an asshole? So what? Takes one to know one.
See, we all have complaints. Too often, we also seem to think someone else should take responsibility for them. We want our cake. But we don't want to pay for it and we want it nut & gluten free, too. Take a minute and stop yammering. Shhhhh. The problem, my friends, might not be "them" but "us". Just listen to yourself. I just don't want to.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
R
There are ways to thanks friends. A card, a 12-pack of beer, a ride to the airport. Common place, really. Can getting your own blog entry, which the friend will probably never read, count? We'll see.
We (my family) have the fortune of owning a boat. Not a yacht. A boat. 13 foot whaler, a floating brick. A money pit. But its a boat. And it spit the bit today. The boating season (who knew...there is a boating season) ends shortly up here in New England. If you wait 'til the harbor freezes over, you waited too long to pull your boat. So today was the day to get our third child out of the water. We were all present for the big day, primed for one last family adventure, one last excursion onto the big, bad ocean. And the boat wouldn't start. Nothing. Nada. Zip. We know shit about boats, except ours needs gas, its small, and it costs a lot of money to operate. Money we don't have. But its a boat in a place where having a boat is synonymous with having a house. But it won't run today.
But my friend, he loves boats. Being on the water for him is relaxing. He likes fiddling with cables and gear and massaging cranky boats into life. Me? If I could sink my boat outside the harbor and not get caught, I would do it. So when we tried everything we could think of to get the brick to run (which admittedly isn't too much), we called our friend. Could you give us a tow? I'm quite certain he had a nap all lined up this afternoon, but instead he hauled his ass into his boat and came to the rescue.
No, we were never in danger. No one was gonna get hurt if our boat sat in the water another weekend or three. Realistically, we would have been out five hundred bucks and been anxious until our little hobby was safe on land in our driveway. But he hooked up some lines and tied some knots and spent his whole afternoon bailing us out of a jam. And he was glad to do it.
Above and beyond the call of duty. A day wasted saving his buddy's pride and bank account. And what did he want in return. Not a damn thing. So he's getting a blog entry and a fifth of Maker's Mark. And what did I get? Sure, my boat is in my driveway, for which I'm grateful. But really what I got was affirmation that moving to my new home was the smartest and best thing I've done in years. I got a reminder that friendship isn't about cards or gifts or even witing an essay, but rather about something much less quantifiable. I was reminded today that friendship shows up when you need it the most and expect it the least. Today it showed up and turned a bad situation into a memory.
Thanks R.
We (my family) have the fortune of owning a boat. Not a yacht. A boat. 13 foot whaler, a floating brick. A money pit. But its a boat. And it spit the bit today. The boating season (who knew...there is a boating season) ends shortly up here in New England. If you wait 'til the harbor freezes over, you waited too long to pull your boat. So today was the day to get our third child out of the water. We were all present for the big day, primed for one last family adventure, one last excursion onto the big, bad ocean. And the boat wouldn't start. Nothing. Nada. Zip. We know shit about boats, except ours needs gas, its small, and it costs a lot of money to operate. Money we don't have. But its a boat in a place where having a boat is synonymous with having a house. But it won't run today.
But my friend, he loves boats. Being on the water for him is relaxing. He likes fiddling with cables and gear and massaging cranky boats into life. Me? If I could sink my boat outside the harbor and not get caught, I would do it. So when we tried everything we could think of to get the brick to run (which admittedly isn't too much), we called our friend. Could you give us a tow? I'm quite certain he had a nap all lined up this afternoon, but instead he hauled his ass into his boat and came to the rescue.
No, we were never in danger. No one was gonna get hurt if our boat sat in the water another weekend or three. Realistically, we would have been out five hundred bucks and been anxious until our little hobby was safe on land in our driveway. But he hooked up some lines and tied some knots and spent his whole afternoon bailing us out of a jam. And he was glad to do it.
Above and beyond the call of duty. A day wasted saving his buddy's pride and bank account. And what did he want in return. Not a damn thing. So he's getting a blog entry and a fifth of Maker's Mark. And what did I get? Sure, my boat is in my driveway, for which I'm grateful. But really what I got was affirmation that moving to my new home was the smartest and best thing I've done in years. I got a reminder that friendship isn't about cards or gifts or even witing an essay, but rather about something much less quantifiable. I was reminded today that friendship shows up when you need it the most and expect it the least. Today it showed up and turned a bad situation into a memory.
Thanks R.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
UCK!
We are a strange group, us humans. If you don't believe me, walk around in public at a mall, visit your kids' school, or watch the news. We are not always bad -- sometimes even good -- but surely and definitely we are a weird species.
Take fashion as an example. For the record, I have two (yes, count 'em) shades of khakis and four different colors of plain shirts to wear to work, so I think I'm eminently qualified to comment on haute couture. I was driving to work the other day, when I saw an amply rear-endowed mother of one bent over in the passenger compartment of her SUV. She was clearly struggling with either the carseat or her kid, who was in turn struggling with having to sit in the car seat. I've been there - not so much fun. I could tell from her body language that she was fried and on the verge of losing it.
But that's not what I noticed first, truth be told. I noticed her gigunda ass. I'm not commentating on the size of her posterior; my own seat cushion ain't so small either. No, in fact I wasn't even "window shopping"... You know, checking out the merchandise without intending to purchase. My wife and I agreed years ago that it wasn't worth fighting over if one of us checking out someone else's goods. Look, don't touch.
No, what attracted my attention was the dazzling bright, hot pink sweats with "UCK!" spelled out in pt. 1024 font across this poor soul's graciously full buttocks. My first thought was, "Uck!" as in gross, but why would someone wear that on their ass? I then realized the passenger door was obscuring the first letter or...gulp!... letters. My next thoughts? "Fuck!" Followed by "Suck!", "Truck!", and finally "Canuck!". But why would a grown woman wear "Fuck" on her ass? Or suck, truck, or Canuck for that matter. There are no good answers to those questions, my friends.
As I pulled up at the light near her house, the full spelling came into view. It read "Luck!" I don't know who should be more embarrassed. Me, for thinking uckfucksucktruckCanuck. Or her, for wearing a neon sign-esque pair of pants with letters so big you could see 'em from the space station, on a butt that could be rented as billboard space. But either way, "Luck!" was not helping her wrestle the car seat and/or rebel two year old into place.
Like I said earlier, we are an odd bunch. And my fashion tip of the day? Wear khakis.
Take fashion as an example. For the record, I have two (yes, count 'em) shades of khakis and four different colors of plain shirts to wear to work, so I think I'm eminently qualified to comment on haute couture. I was driving to work the other day, when I saw an amply rear-endowed mother of one bent over in the passenger compartment of her SUV. She was clearly struggling with either the carseat or her kid, who was in turn struggling with having to sit in the car seat. I've been there - not so much fun. I could tell from her body language that she was fried and on the verge of losing it.
But that's not what I noticed first, truth be told. I noticed her gigunda ass. I'm not commentating on the size of her posterior; my own seat cushion ain't so small either. No, in fact I wasn't even "window shopping"... You know, checking out the merchandise without intending to purchase. My wife and I agreed years ago that it wasn't worth fighting over if one of us checking out someone else's goods. Look, don't touch.
No, what attracted my attention was the dazzling bright, hot pink sweats with "UCK!" spelled out in pt. 1024 font across this poor soul's graciously full buttocks. My first thought was, "Uck!" as in gross, but why would someone wear that on their ass? I then realized the passenger door was obscuring the first letter or...gulp!... letters. My next thoughts? "Fuck!" Followed by "Suck!", "Truck!", and finally "Canuck!". But why would a grown woman wear "Fuck" on her ass? Or suck, truck, or Canuck for that matter. There are no good answers to those questions, my friends.
As I pulled up at the light near her house, the full spelling came into view. It read "Luck!" I don't know who should be more embarrassed. Me, for thinking uckfucksucktruckCanuck. Or her, for wearing a neon sign-esque pair of pants with letters so big you could see 'em from the space station, on a butt that could be rented as billboard space. But either way, "Luck!" was not helping her wrestle the car seat and/or rebel two year old into place.
Like I said earlier, we are an odd bunch. And my fashion tip of the day? Wear khakis.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Snap Shot
If one could graph the relationship between intelligence and wisdom, what would we find? I fear that my intelligence drops in direct proportion to gains in personal wisdom. What one might call this an example of a divergent series, I suppose.
I used to be smart but my overall brain power is diminishing in relation to the context of the world I inhabit. While I think my intelligence approaches zero, it will never be nothing. Conversely, I am more wise after each passing experience. My quotient of wisdom may approach infinity, but it will never be infinite.
I miss being smart and sure, while I like my growing perspective. Why can't I have both? Will I be a happy idiot when I get older? The idiot part seems assured.
I used to be smart but my overall brain power is diminishing in relation to the context of the world I inhabit. While I think my intelligence approaches zero, it will never be nothing. Conversely, I am more wise after each passing experience. My quotient of wisdom may approach infinity, but it will never be infinite.
I miss being smart and sure, while I like my growing perspective. Why can't I have both? Will I be a happy idiot when I get older? The idiot part seems assured.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)