I'm sick of this scene....I need a break in routine
So I'm walking through the hallway at school and it started drizzling (for only like 2 seconds..weird) and I overhear-(I really can't help this overhearing thing..maybe I'm hyperobservant..maybe I'm just an eavesdropper)- this junior girl say to her guy friend, "What if, instead of rain, that was bugs?"
What if, indeed. While I appreciate the general sense of dread and awe that goes with this thought (which I take to be something like Eeew, Ick, That Would Be A Lot Of Motherfucking Bugs), I am having a lot of trouble with its general wack-ness, and all day I have been looking at things and thinking What If They Were Other Things? A bowl of cereal: What If This Was Paper Clips? My cat: What If She Were A Trombone? Anyone who reads this journal knows that I am capable of large leaps of logic (often I just leap entirely over logic, it's quicker that way), but What If Rain was Bugs? is one that I can't quite allow.
It reminds me of a stoner philosopher who pulls his face out of the bong and starts talking about What If We Are All Just Figments Of A Sleeping God's Imagination or How Do You Know That When We Say "Blue" We Are Referring To The Same Color or Maybe The Universe Is Really A Steak Burrito And Earth Is Just One Of The Shreds Of Steak And Dude, Let's Order Mexican. I have no patience for this sort of garbage and my usual response is epistemological: How Will We Know, After I Punch You In The Mouth, That You Actually Feel "Pain"?
later.
What if, indeed. While I appreciate the general sense of dread and awe that goes with this thought (which I take to be something like Eeew, Ick, That Would Be A Lot Of Motherfucking Bugs), I am having a lot of trouble with its general wack-ness, and all day I have been looking at things and thinking What If They Were Other Things? A bowl of cereal: What If This Was Paper Clips? My cat: What If She Were A Trombone? Anyone who reads this journal knows that I am capable of large leaps of logic (often I just leap entirely over logic, it's quicker that way), but What If Rain was Bugs? is one that I can't quite allow.
It reminds me of a stoner philosopher who pulls his face out of the bong and starts talking about What If We Are All Just Figments Of A Sleeping God's Imagination or How Do You Know That When We Say "Blue" We Are Referring To The Same Color or Maybe The Universe Is Really A Steak Burrito And Earth Is Just One Of The Shreds Of Steak And Dude, Let's Order Mexican. I have no patience for this sort of garbage and my usual response is epistemological: How Will We Know, After I Punch You In The Mouth, That You Actually Feel "Pain"?
later.