Women, eh?

The sun was just setting when she came up to the bench and sat down beside me. Five-foot-three, with fiery black hair and shoes to match, she folded legs far longer than her height would allow and placed herself uncomfortably close to me. I mumbled a greeting nervously, as I've never been comfortable around women, or men, or carrots for that matter. The last rays of the day caressed our faces, and she turned to look at me.

 A moment or two passed. My ear, uncomfortable under her gaze, heated up and began to glow. I turned to meet her eyes, as one does, and smiled the small, polite smile of a serial killer. She met my gaze and held it, and I in turn could not look away because of terrible neck cramp. The sun continued to set, and was very bright in the corner of my eye.

Time passed, then at last she opened her mouth. Her voice was golden like gold or wood covered in gold-leaf paint, and she spoke thusly;

 "Do you like ants?"

 I pondered the question. It was, I decided, pretty cool how they worked together and carried really heavy things like leafs and baby elephants. Yes, I decided, they're ok. My mind made up, I dedicated my rhetorical skills to the subject.

 "Yes, they're ok." I replied.

 She smiled.

 "So do I." She said. "Look!"

 She took my gaze, and brought it to focus on her necklace. It was made entirely of ants, each tied by its front legs to the rear legs of the next. I looked in horror at the creatures, their broken legs twisted beyond repair, their eyes crying softly out to me, begging me to end their suffering. Shocked, I watched the necklace for perhaps an hour. Around us, it became dark.

 "Why... Why would you do that?" I asked.

 She just smiled. At length, she faded like mist, evaporating in the dying rays of the sun. I sat a while longer on the bench, pondering the things one ponders at times such as this, and then ate a sandwich. I never saw her again, and wonder to this day if she even existed.

Men! I have done it!

Gentlemen, I have completed a fabled task! Long has it been the stock of comedians, sitcoms and drunken men who think they are comedians or in a sitcom, to comment on the ability - seemingly innate to women - to put a towel on one's head, twist it three times, and leave it there. The towel, to the woman, is a natural friend, staying there until the hair is dry and such things friends do. Long has it been said that men cannot achieve such a unity with the towel. Long has it been said that these magics are know only to women through ancient and often-renewed deals with Satan himself.
 Not so, friends! For I have placed a towel on my head and achieved such a goal!
It was shit. The whole thing was tight, it covered one of my eyes, and whenever I moved, it caused shooting pains across my whole head. I hereby move to make it illegal to own a towel, either for personal use, or to sell to damp people on the street. Think of the children! Oh, why won't anyone think of the children!

Musings on time and space. Mainly just time.

Chronologically arranged, with their front covers on display, the box-sets for all 6 seasons and the film of Sex and the City prove a powerful visual demonstration of the inability of man (and woman) to fight the aging process...

 If one were, in time, to travel through space, one would need to practise good oral hygiene. Of course, this could be accomplished through the use of toothpaste and brush. The other day, I answered the a question that had bothered me for several minutes: "Does toothpaste go off?" The answer, yes!
 So, if you should find a tube of several year old toothpaste in a box, please don't use it. It will taste bad, and probably melt your teeth. That can happen, you know...