Zane's Beard Update

Status: Coney Island-homeless-man shaggy

Put-in-mouth-ability: Fair to stormy

Flavor: Strong overtones of cotton candy. Reasons unknown.






Inquiring minds have a right to know.

Incredible works of time-wastery

My friend Joelle held a short IM monologue in which every sentence accidentally began with an I. This got me thinking that she had tried to start writing an acrostic, but had been seized by the stutters as soon as she began.

I guess that's about as far as I can go to explain where the last twenty minutes went.

I-crostic

I started to write an acrostic,

Intending it to be fant-ostic.

Intricate secrets I would hide there,

Initials leading to wisdom’s lair.

Indeed, the very idea thrilled -

In such clever guise, my thoughts cradled.

Injurious to public morals?

Into the deep I cast such quarrels!

Interring my fear six feet below,

Impetuously I began – O!

Instead of wit so scintillating,

Ire alone I found a-waiting.

Impish beast, Fate! Why mention butter?

If only I could lose this stutter!

What does it mean to exist in this world of pain and emptiness?

What follows is an intensely serious and enlightened discussion of man's state vis-a-vis the essential unknowability of goodness and the immanent presence of evil.


Did you know that leaving your window open all day when the weather is in the mid-fifties with a coquettishly chilly breeze can leave your body as cold as a lump of Antarctica swaddled lovingly in dry ice, boxed up with pure hate, and shot into a black hole? Well, in point of fact, this turn of events is highly possible. But how could I know such a thing, the impudent but attentive reader may ask. Though I may frown at the off-handed manner in which this hypothetical reader reveals his inability to take my word on trust, I will nonetheless confess that I have arrived at the above-stated piece of priceless knowledge not by extensive research, but through that most noble teacher of the Enlightenment, Experience.

The weather finally, and I hope permanently, broke yesterday after stubbornly persisting in maintaining temperatures well into the mid-eighties during the first week of October, and I am so enjoying the sounds of the crisp fall afternoon and the feel of the breeze that I refuse to even consider closing the large, wide-open window approximately two feet from where I sit. It seems somehow unjust that I should be doing what makes me feel good, but still be uncomfortably cold at the same time. WHEN WILL SOMEONE STOP THE BUSH REGIME'S REIGN OF TERROR AND LET JUSTICE RETURN TO AMERICA? How myriad are his injustices!


Seriously, though, my hands are, like, way cold. And so are my knees, for reasons unknown. THAT IS JUST WHERE THE COLDNESS GOES.


If someone told me anytime during the first two years of grad school that there would come a period in my course of study in which I could waste the tail end of a Friday afternoon typing a blog post about being too damn obstinate to close a window, I would have punched that person directly on the kisser and then gotten angry about how punching him had made me waste valuable time.


And now we are all better informed about the problem of evil and the ways in which it intrudes itself upon our consciousnesses.