Let me take you back into the fog of pre-history. Back to a time before iPhones. Before Mp3 players. Before Dora the Explorer and, if my chronology is correct, even before Nintendo 64.
Let me take you back to my childhood.
When imagination and ingenuity were the only sources of entertainment, there was an activity that kept my tiny little brain entertained for hours. Two circles of paper (both alike in
dignity dimension) would be taped to a pencil. On one piece of paper two eyes were drawn. On the other piece of paper, a mouth was drawn. If you held the pencil in front of your face and twirled it really fast, the two images would blur to create a face. If you didn’t twirl fast enough, all you would see was an alternation of two distinct images.
I promise this reminiscence has a purpose.
Send this concept into abstract-land now, if you will, and replace the two distinct images with the two distinct realms of good stuff and bad stuff. If the pencil of destiny is twirled fast enough, then equilibrium between the two will be achieved. If not… well. One goes lurching around like a blindfolded person navigating stairs.
I pretty sure my pencil of destiny is being twirled by someone lacking in dexterity.
B’s helpful tip: feel free to adapt the above sentence to describe any unsatisfactory sexual encounter.
On any given day over the last two weeks, a conversation with a hypothetical other could have gone something like this:
HO: Hey, how has your day been? Awesome or awful?
HO: Awesful is not a thing. Okay, say on a scale of perforated ear drum to lecture by Elly Ameling, where are you sitting? Maybe a seven?
Me: I am both a one and a ten.
HO: An eleven! That’s great!
Me: I’m not sure I’m making myself understood…
Yes dear and possibly non-existent readers, Monday at 6pm I was sitting in a hilarious and inspiring lecture on art song by the incomparable Dutch singer Elly Ameling. Nine hours later I was dragged from a perfectly acceptable dream about washing machines into the shadowy-grey of 3am by an ear drum poised on the brink of rupture like an overly dramatic diver on the edge of the platform at the Olympics. This kind of dichotomy is becoming standard now.
Dear pencil-of-destiny-twirling giant in the sky,