So, here’s the thing . . .
I noticed I’m drifting into introspection with these posts. Or, if not introspection, advice disguised as non-advice. Why disguised, you ask?
Well, I don’t want the responsibility, now, do I?
Imagine the scenario . . . someone ladened with emotional problems, rudderless in life’s ocean, tossed about like a cork in a storm, shunned by everyone. Here I come, whistling merrily and tossing advice hither and fro . . . now imagine one of my deep insights becomes not just a life vest, but a rudder, then a vessel, and eventually terra firma for the cork to plant, establish roots, and get its life together.
Next thing you know, they’re besieged by other corks, all wanting advice and demanding the secret to the success of a well-ordered life. Even lacking the totality of my deep understanding of life, dispensing what little they know, the First Cork provides others with enough wisdom for them to establish a vibrant and successful community of rational, self-sufficient, and well-adjusted individuals. A community that spreads.
Next thing you know, religious institutions all over the word — no longer buoyed by their vacuous dogmas — collapse, political parties find no support for their self-serving agendas, and companies left and right find their claim about quasi-magical elixirs fall on deaf ears.
Soon, the world’s economy is in shambles as more and more people find happiness and purpose without the accouterments tied to the likes of Facebook, Google, Twitter, Apple, and Windows. Politicians are held accountable and no longer can count on stupidity and primitive reptilian brain-driven susceptibility to their empty promises. Governments shrink and take on a more traditional role of arbiters for ever-less-frequent disputes.
Finally, driven by rational thought, society bans broccoli . . . and that’s when vegetarians rebel and decide to strike back at the source; the one who triggered the eventual downfall of their self-proclaimed elitism: me. Joining hands with bureaucrats, priests, and unemployed life-coaches, they would hunt me down.
. . . and, of course, being armed to the teeth, I make short work of them, but then I’d have to fill out all these forms (in triplicate) and file them . . . and that’s where I would get stuck as there would be no more bureaucrats to handle the forms. Papers would pile up all over the world.
. . . and then, one day, someone drops a lit match and it’s the end of civilization as we know it, consumed in a conflagration the likes of which had not been seen before and would never be seen again. Sorry, but I just don’t need that kind of guilt trip.
And now, the photo:
That photo is from my walk without the Note 8 (mentioned in a previous post). I simplified it a bit, but that’s what those two rocks look like. Kind of neat, I thought.
Speaking of conflagrations, I thought this was funny. I’m sure someone will complain as not politically correct since all of the patrons are male as are all — I presume — the firefighters.
Funny, but few ever mention or even acknowledge establishments catering to females (meaning, scantily clad men dancing for the pleasure of the ladies).
In case anyone is wondering, I’m in no danger of running out of Doodles, be they these sparkly creations or color geometric patterns or even more intricate and (un)realistic depictions of life.
And . . . that’s it
Some of these posts will likely be longer as the mood hits me, but most will be thus; short, uninteresting, bland, and relentless.
You can read about Project 313 HERE.
That’s it. This post has ended . . . except for the stuff below.
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. . . my FP ward . . . chieken shit.
Finally, if you interpret anything on this blog as me asking or wanting pity, sympathy, or complaining about my life, or asking for help and advice, know you’re likely missing my subtle mix of irony, sarcasm, and humor.