What a weekend! While galumphing about like a cross-eyed heffalump, I made a couple of discoveries over the weekend that you may (or mayn’t) be able to identify with, and it does prove that my hypothesis regarding the mind actually having not shorted completely out, still has the ability to stagger and amaze at times.
The first of my discoveries is in regard to the purpose of toes. For some, toes are a wonderful place to paint. While others find them useful for picking things up as a great way to impress the party guests. While still others find toes to be a great way to keep the shoes and socks upon ones feet. However, while I admit to being dazzled and astounded (and occasionally disgusted and disturbed) by the uses people find for their toes, I have discovered the source of the Nile with regard to these lower digits. The true purpose for toes, according to the painful research, is to find the corners of furniture in a darkened room. I made this bone breaking discovery after apparently (accidentally) attempting to score a goal with the corner of the coffee table. Many hops, vile words, and clinching of teeth later, I managed to make a matching set when attempting to walk around the opposite side. Thus leading to more volcanic vocabularic vileties and ending with my flopping on the floor like the last gasp of the caught catfish.
My second discovery, in much the same vein, involved fingers and papercuts. Paper doesn’t seem to like fingers much. Perhaps it’s just me, but that’s been my experience anyway. After nearly lopping off a pointer or two with the razor sharp edge of a page and the apparent (and suddenly intense) attention of every surface in the universe due to the number of times I managed to smack the incision, dribble some stinging substance in it, and all around anguish it caused when words I thought I had long ago locked away suddenly burst forth with such vehemence that I feared for the ears of the neighbors.
My third, and thankfully final, discovery of the weekend, proved that the theorem which says “There’s no such thing as a stupid question” is completely a lie. Well, perhaps it’s not so much the question that is inhibited as it could be the person posing said question. Enter my friend, Pete. I met up with some friends at a local watering hole, and Pete, seeing the bandage on my fingers, gazed straight into my eyes and, in all seriousity, posed the following inquiry: “Did you get hurt?” It was at this moment that the split second decision moodled about my mind shrieking with hysterical (and psychotic) laughter of a maniac, or banshee, or some maniacal banshee, and I truly wanted to reach out ever so calmly, and punch Pete in the face. It is just such moments that cause me to question the validity of claim that everyone has a brain. Perhaps ’tis true, and perhaps Pete merely shifted his into neutral (or reverse) for a moment, or perhaps Pete’s mind had decided against taking the train and opted for the rolling scooter chair. Whatever the case may be, the ill timed inquiry was truly testing of my faltering sanity.
But enough about me, how was YOUR weekend?