Superdupe

I try hard not to be stupid. I have to try really hard sometimes. But it’s pretty hard to do.
Idiotica seems to be a facet I’ve developed quite nicely over so many years and it is now coming beautifully into bloom. I would love it as much as, if not more than life itself, if I could wake up one morning with the realization that I weren’t stupid no more. Tree of knowledge and all that. I should grow one of those.

Take for instance, the simple act of telling time. We learn to tell time as little children and that’s something, along with riding a bicycle and picking our noses, that stays with us as we grow into and past adulthood. In fact the tiny collection of my infrequent moments of glory starts with the day when it dawned on me that I was a time reader. Digital clock or one of those clocks with hands, it didn’t matter ‘cos I could tell time as good as the rest of them.
Why then, does this elegant ability escape me in public?
A peculiar phenomenon seems to be set in motion whenever someone stops to ask me the time. What it is, is there’s a bright flash and a huge swirling vortex of thunder, lightning and the colour mauve opens up before my very eyes, sucking me into its wet belly and transporting me back to the exact day before that first fleeting glorious moment of mine, so that suddenly, digital watch or any kind of watch, I can’t read the damn thing anymore. Panic sets in and I’m staring around wildly for a while, attempting to display some false sense of composure or even orientation, before making a second, pretend-nonchalant attempt at deciphering the time. Of course, that isn’t going to work… By now, it’s been at least fifteen seconds, way longer than even a celebutard would have needed, so I ditch it all, abandon every pretense and just twist my wrist around, showing the poor detainee my watch, expecting them to read the face at that awkward angle.
One might think this is foolish exaggeration, but if one only knew the minimal extent of my hyperbole, one might be quite aback-taken.
Floyd: Loser is as loser does.
I have even gone so far as, once I’ve got over the initial shock and stricken staring phase, to pretend that my watch has stopped working. So there I am, knocking at my watch, harder and harder, as if the force of each successive knock were directly proportional to the probability of either the watch coming back to life or me eventually figuring out what the pointed hands and silver numerals meant.

And those women fingers. Ah, nemeses of mine! I never fail to never look at them in time.
I can’t tell the number of times I’ve kicked myself post-first-meeting, when I realized I, once again, didn’t check out her left hand. And this last time, when I forced myself to wake up and look… well, it wasn’t worth it. Big fat band on a slim ring finger and then she can’t stop talking about life in France and why her husband doesn’t like her hanging out with single friends. Thanks a lot, life. Again.
Floyd: I rest my case. Again.


“Perhaps you’ve had an experience like that in childhood and told no one; perhaps you’ve had that brush with a world so large that you seldom or never saw it again.” – Finnegan Bell

I think I’d miss you even if we never met, said the man-whore to daddy’s girl.

Lifehouse – You and Me
Colbie Caillat – Bubbly