Dew Point
My body clock no longer tracks days, although it seldom did. I am sure of this because I never know what today is, though I do know what today feels like: a Thursday. (Why?) Because there are six Old Styles in the refrigerator, and I must work tomorrow. I work as an independent contractor -- tomorrow I will be independently contracting syphilis. Ha! No, not really. I do accounting tomorrow.
Accounting is like sorting into an infinite number of piles. I've always liked to sort. I sort my coins. I put my quarters in a small margarine container. My nickels and dimes go together into a big 1980's Tupperware with no lid. The pennies go into a peanut butter jar. Since I put the nickels and dimes together, the television calls me a socialist, sometimes just as I am about to fall asleep. I'm no socialist. I just appreciate a bigger middle class container.
To its credit, last night the television showed me Tom Skilling, the greatest local weatherman on Earth, discussing dew point's relation to discomfort in the "Ask Tom Why?" part of the weather report (the best one was "Why does it rain when I cut myself?" -- transcript available from the WGN archives). So I've been trying to understand dew point. It's boring, but I also enjoy reading about rectal exams, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, sexual discussions with family, and myself.
I like myself, but I enjoy making myself uncomfortable, as if there were something to be learned through discomfort. Comfort, I've found, lends itself to the same thoughts, over and over, like "This is okay" or "Scooby Doo, where are you?" For me, these thoughts would not be a problem, but I've always aspired to think one of the thoughts that no one else has thought before. And it doesn't matter if someone thinks it tomorrow if I thought it yesterday. Of course, according to my body clock, yesterday and tomorrow are the same thing.
Accounting is like sorting into an infinite number of piles. I've always liked to sort. I sort my coins. I put my quarters in a small margarine container. My nickels and dimes go together into a big 1980's Tupperware with no lid. The pennies go into a peanut butter jar. Since I put the nickels and dimes together, the television calls me a socialist, sometimes just as I am about to fall asleep. I'm no socialist. I just appreciate a bigger middle class container.
To its credit, last night the television showed me Tom Skilling, the greatest local weatherman on Earth, discussing dew point's relation to discomfort in the "Ask Tom Why?" part of the weather report (the best one was "Why does it rain when I cut myself?" -- transcript available from the WGN archives). So I've been trying to understand dew point. It's boring, but I also enjoy reading about rectal exams, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, sexual discussions with family, and myself.
I like myself, but I enjoy making myself uncomfortable, as if there were something to be learned through discomfort. Comfort, I've found, lends itself to the same thoughts, over and over, like "This is okay" or "Scooby Doo, where are you?" For me, these thoughts would not be a problem, but I've always aspired to think one of the thoughts that no one else has thought before. And it doesn't matter if someone thinks it tomorrow if I thought it yesterday. Of course, according to my body clock, yesterday and tomorrow are the same thing.
posted by JMH | 8:38 PM
1 Comments:
I once thought, I have created a new thought which was - Only mortality is immortal. then i found out it has been said before.
i like the sentence with the middle class container.
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