by mooeytie (Ask me anything on formspring.me)
What am I, a retroactive inspiration machine? Not only does your question lack any useful context, it also puts the onus on me to make anything worth reading out of it. Then you have the gall to lay down a word count stricture whose articulation not only strains the boundaries of grammatical good taste, but takes more words to express than the initial question itself, compounding the insult.
With all the strife, struggle and conflict rampant in the world, the thousands upon thousands of unresolved moral, scientific, spiritual and Pokemon-related questions still outstanding within the broad, vibrant scope of human existence, your utter failure to pluck one gem from the richly veined mine of our collective unconscious – one glistening fruit from the verdant, glistening leaves of the Tree of Life – belies not merely your apathetic surrender to the web’s inevitable, entropic descent into literary hell, on par with vitamin supplement package copy and snots anonymously wiped above men’s room urinals, but also your belligerent, misanthropic need to transfer your psychological burden of unfathomably sad reliance on strangers to imbue your daily life with tiny ejaculatory bursts of false meaning onto me, in the hopes that I might find fodder with which to temporarily slow your otherwise careening trajectory into an alarmingly looming middle age and ignominious decline into an obscurity made only slightly less bleak by fond remembrances of childhood – buttressed though they may be by the fog of time and the hopeless optimism of wishful thinking and self deception.
That’s only 250 words. Happy?
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Go to the supermarket and buy some bittersweet baking chocolate, then take a giant bite and choke it down. If you sneeze, you can blame the proportion of chocolate liquor (not “liqueur”). If not, then it’s something particular to the list of ingredients in Hershey’s Special Dark (which is chock full of weirdass, fake chocolate extras and preservatives). Compare the Special Dark label to the regular Hershey’s chocolate label and try isolating it that way.
If none of the above leads to an explanation, you’re a mutant freak and / or lying to me and / or it is psychosomatic.
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Depends. Is Hobbes in his perceived-by-grownups limp plushie state? If so, then I gotta go with Proust, who knew very well how how to handle a man. Sweet young lips aside, Calvin is just too inexperienced for my taste.
BUT, if Hobbes is running in fully-animated and “fully capable” mode, then that changes things completely. The possibilities with the tail ALONE are saliva-worthy. Hell, Calvin’s just frosting on the furry cake at that point.
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The premature death of a talented actor is like an unexpected and unwelcome breakup with your significant other. You immediately increase the perceived value of the relationship as a direct result of its loss.
As Daniel Gilbert argues in his book “Stumbling on Happiness”:
Among life’s cruelest truths is this one: Wonderful things are especially wonderful the first time they happen, but their wonderfulness wanes with repetition. Just compare the first and last time your child said “Mama” or your partner said “I love you” and you’ll know exactly what I mean. When we have an experience—hearing a particular sonata, making love with a particular person, watching the sun set from a particular window of a particular room—on successive occasions, we quickly begin to adapt to it, and the experience yields less pleasure each time. Psychologists call this habituation, economists call it declining marginal utility, and the rest of us call it marriage.
James Dean divorced us right after the spectacular honeymoon, and so he became (as will Heath Ledger) “the one that got away”.
Licking my anus is the new blow me.
PS: Ask me anything on formspring.me!
Ask me anything on formspring.me
That would be the little-known single “Mr. Ace”, which was front man Jonas Berggren’s calculated attempt to fuse contemporary mainstream sensibilities with a then-burgeoning popularization of the “safer” side of electronic music. Despite its ominous undertones, soothing overtones, and neutral midtones, the track sums up all of the best, worst and irrelevant in one of pop’s most accessibly enigmatic bands.
