Complexity Simply Creates Absurdity
Let’s look at this from the outside in, shall we?
Every four years there is a national election to see which dog gets the chance to mess this country up even more than what it is.
We spout our favorite, laud and praise this person, saying he can do the job.
So we go to the polling booths, create our vote and are done, but then there are others who vote by mail, that is, as long as the postmark is before the voting deadline.
The absurdity to this is no matter how many vote, the number that really matters comes from the Electoral College, which in fact no one graduated from this college, yet alone went there ... so don’t expect a degree.
So, we vote regardless. When the talley is said and done and say 215 million people vote, and there is, say a 1,000 vote lead for the favorite, but the other person gets 51% of the Electerate, he wins. The complexity to this is strange in its own right.
There is a much easier way to determine the winner where voters just stay home and don’t vote at all. Put the Democrat and the Republican in a boxing ring and let them duke it out. First one to either be:
A) knocked out
B) gets to winded to continue
C) gets an attorney to cry wolf
D) a no-show
... loses. Just as simple as that. Then business will be in session from that day forward.
After he has been in office a week, we complain because he hasn’t solved all the problems and ... how come we don’t get another stimulus check? Come on, you’re the new guy, give us some love. I mean, hell, country is already in over its head debt-wise ,,, what’s another three-trillion, right? Only this time, to show your heart is in the right place, make the check for $1,201 this time.
And if the complexity of this either makes you smile, laugh or roll your eyes, then you may come to grips with the fact the complexity of this entire post is about as absurd as it will get.
Personally, Goofy gets my vote.
Just Say It
Three very short words, in fact.
First word: one letter, one syllable. Second word: four letters, one syllable. Third word: three letters, one syllable.
On its own, each individual word isn’t scary. Not really. So why are they when you put them together? One of the great mysteries of life, I guess.
The process of speaking them aloud is exceptionally simple. Sorta like saying, “hey you,” or “what’s up, dude.” It takes less air than it does to sneeze. Yet, so often, and especially when saying those three words to someone for the first time, an invisible wall rears its head like an annoying relative that won’t go home.
You know you have the power to banish that unwanted visitor, but for some reason, you just sit there mutely. Why? Why would you subject yourself to such a masochistic existence? I suppose only you know. Or maybe you don’t know. Seriously, who really knows why they do the things they do or don’t do? I know I don’t.
Or do I?
Forget that. My point here is that our hearts are usually wiser than our brains. The heart knows what it wants. The heart wants you to say those three little words. Who knows when or if you may get the chance to say them again?
So, the next time you get the urge to say them but you’re finding it increasingly complicated and impossible, just tell that annoying relative to get lost. Like a boss. And remember the profound fact that it really is easier to say those three little words than it is to hide in the bedroom from your nagging cousin who won’t stop using your jacuzzi and drinking all your wine.
Why would you let your cousin take over your castle? Queen Elizabeth wouldn’t. Henry VIII wouldn’t have. Not that I’m saying he’s a great role model or anything, because, well, you know, he beheaded his wife. Or was it wives?
Moving on, here’s my last piece of advice for you: Just do (say) it. Be the Nike in this world. No one ever accomplished anything extraordinary by staying silent. So, open those remarkable lips and speak. And whatever you do, don’t say “elephant shoes.”
Why am I telling you all this? Because I love you.
See? That wasn’t so hard.
girl: can you pass me the remote
guy: why can't you take it yourself? It's right over there!
girl: oh, so you think I'm lazy?
guy: (*tries to avoid another lecture) Uh, no, I'll just take it for you..
girl: Oh, so you think I'm weak and can't take the remote by myself?
guy: Uh, no, you wanted m--
girl: (*cuts in) Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I can't do stuff on my own.
guy: I didn't say you can't!
girl: So now I'm a liar?
guy: (*gives up and walks away, ignoring her)
girl: Now you're walking away! You don't love me... Let's break up!
yay, girls love to complicate the simple XD
Introductions and Mindless Chatter
The woman in flat 7 is thin, too thin. She definitely eats; I can tell from the loads of grocery bags she carries up the stairs every Saturday. She is a nurse. Her mouth reminds me of a peppermint, no, a candy cane. The outside is bright red like strawberries while the inside is a platinum white. Sometimes, she talks to me. I try not to talk back.
On one such occasion, she was just moving in, and I had made the mistake of taking the stairs that day. We had run straight into each other.
“Oh, hullo, sorry ‘bout that,” she started off with a thick, most likely Scottish accent, “Wasn’t lookin’ where I was goin’. Name’s Shannon.”
The fact that she was speaking to me was confusing, scary even. I have never been one for conversation because as a child, I was mostly mute. It carried over into adulthood where I developed crushing social anxiety. I fail to see how this is an issue, but my therapist thinks otherwise.
Introductions were generally my most hated part of meeting someone. Suprisingly, it was not the long stares that seemed to size me up like a ripe apple at the supermarket. Nor was my greatest fear the dreaded handshake that followed any meeting. I mean, come on, who likes touching dirty, germ infested hands? Practically a breeding ground for the plague, but I have said so in the past, and the person attempting the handshake immediately retracts the outstretched limb. I usually never see them again. This seems perfectly fine in my opinion.
No, my greatest enemy when meeting strangers was the introduction. To this day, I have never completed one without seizing up in fear or running away promptly. This created quite the web of gossip among the neighbors of the “Strange Man in Flat 11” who could not talk to people. Or eat mangoes but that’s a different matter altogether and much more simple in nature.
This one is complex. Why ask me my name? You don’t really want to know. Odds are, we will never see the other again. Therefore, why would I need some insignificant name to fill my consciousness? Especially that of some too thin nurse with a candy cane mouth.
Furthermore, why offer your name up like Valentine’s Day sweets? You have no idea whether or not I want to know it. You just assume. Assumptions sink ships, not loose lips. For instance, let’s say a sailor tasked with navigation assumes that the water is calm and peaceful. He returns to his hammock, expecting a quiet rest. His assumption proves incorrect after a thunderstorm crashes the ship into a rocky shore. Everyone on the boat dies. But, yes, continue to assume if you so please.
But as always, I digress. Now, I believe I was speaking about the nurse. Yes, she arrived on the landing, arms full of bags and offered an apology and her name. I did not want nor ask for either. You see my dilemma.
"It's fine, off you go, then," I attempted to hastily shrug her off, and she almost looked sad, but I don't have the smallest clue as to why.
Therefore, the following Monday when my therapist asked how my week went, I gave her a longer version of this. She claimed introductions were "simple" and "nothing to be afraid of." I find them to be just as complex to me as calculus would be to five year olds. Nonetheless, clearly, I'm dealing with ignorance, so not only will I be getting a new therapist, but I will be getting a new flat because I have no time to deal with nurses who seem to think I would be good at conversation. When I explained this to my therapist, she protested and instructed me to "face my fears" or some other stupid word of advice I could have gotten from a Tumblr self help forum.
"We can unpack that next session. Oh, wait, we can't!" I had snarked in response.
Conversations are hard, introductions are harder. I hope I never have to meet another person for as long as I live. Oh, if I could be so lucky.
“Do you like apples?”
In early February, while attending a professional conference for phlebologists in Copenhagen, Denmark, a thin-boned American boy with rudy cheeks and an eye for colorful pants, came running up to me and asked me a question that changed my life.
I was not ready for this question, which seemed simple at the time, but now haunts my waking life. The significance of this encounter tortures me to this very day.
"Do you like apples?" he asked.
Before I had processed this existential question, I couldn't help but notice that the boy's hair was curiously sculpted, with blondish curls on tips of his jet-black hair. His singular lanky long arm was stretching outward, with what appeared to be a spherically shaped Canadian Gala Apple in his well-manicured hand.
"Do you like apples?" he asked yet again. The question echoed in my brain, repeating itself with an ever-increasing volume. I looked at the boy with stunned ferocity, silently watching, as he slightly shook this abundantly red fruit in my general direction.
"What do you mean, do I like apples?" I finally manged to utter a high-pitched staccato screech directly at the boy, trying to curtail my inner rage. Of course, as you'd expect, the boy recoiled when confronted with my unusual reply, and quickly shoved the object back into his impeccably sewn light blue denim jeans.
And then, just as soon as this boy had suddenly first appeared, he had vanished into crowd of the well-attended conference, and completely disappeared from my view. I never was to see that lanky American boy again.
Oh God! "DO YOU LIKE APPLES?". It's such a loaded question! What could that preteen have meant? Was he sent by someone? The government? A jealous phlebologist? I just wish I had handled the situation better than I had. I just wan't ready to explore this unbelievably complex question.
After all, can anybody really answer this, with any degree of certainty...
I mean "Do you like apples?"
See... This question is much harder than you think.
The way we love now
Boy meets girl.
It’s so simple. You can meet them anywhere: a coffee shop, through friends, at a party. Someone might introduce you, but maybe not. Maybe you meet through a dating app. You can swipe right on - thousands? - of individuals.
That’s how Derek got his date. He made reservations; he ordered the wine. He checks his watch: 6:01pm. Molly should be arriving any minute.
Then his minutes start ticking. His life is ticking: one more minute alone, and then another. This date: it’s to eradicate his lonliness. He needs this.
We all need this.
There’s a chain of events after boy meets girl. You date. Fall in love. Marry. Live together. Have children.
It’s so simple.
Derek checks his watch for the fifth time: 6:55pm.
In the moment in which Derek now resides, he has failed.
In this game in which Derek is playing a lead role, he has lost self esteem, self respect.
In the world in which the biggest status symbol of all is to have a partner, he is the single loser.
In a society in which finding and keeping your partner is your identity, he has failed.
Derek checks his watch for the last time: 7:15pm.
Boy will not meet girl.
As he gets up to leave, he bumps into an old coworker, who is talking to a beautiful girl. This coworker was someone he had never imagined could meet someone. Someone he could never imagine would be dating at all.
Boy has met girl.
We all want it.
It’s so simple.
There was a blind man. One day a magician came up to him and asked the blind man:
"I'm a magician. Ask what you want! Maybe you want your eyes to see?"
The blind man was silent for a while and said:
"No, I only have one wish: that others be as blind as I am ..."
Conclusion from you! Dear reader, leave your opinion in the comments...
"So what are we going to do about these feelings?" He asked, after he gulped down two-thirds of his beer.
I had wondered why he had invited me to this bar. He had never done that before. This was definitely a week of firsts.
Such an odd week. A co-worker comes in white sick, as if the company couldn't function without him. Sending him home didn't help any. I still got sick. Hopefully, nothing major will happen while I'm gone. They have my home number.
At the pharmacy, while buying medication for this severe cold or whatever it is, I bump into the ex-wife. I was genuinely happy to see her, until she acted like I had caught her doing something wrong. Was I glad to done with that conversation. Her life was her business, no longer mine.
Then, as if I wasn't feeling bad enough, the medicine hits me so hard that I wake up to Berkeley in bed with me. Now he asks me, what are we going to do!
Divorcing after thirteen years of marriage, I need peace of mind, not another relationship. I'm up for fun without attachments. This is more than I want to handle at this time.
I wish he had chosen a quiet place to talk. The music is too loud, the bar is overcrowded. This is not the place or time for this conversation. What did he think, that bringing me here would keep me from making a scene? How insulting!
"It was only sex."