I cannot get the fervor up to fever pitch anymore to write down a good and truly heartfelt rant, a rant that both smacks of snark and lambastes with bile. I have started a couple of rants the past few weeks and then half way through decided that I didn’t really feel that vehemently against the current story arc present in Heroes Season 2 or the lack of mainstreamed new enduring music. I would get just to the point of frothing at the mouth and decide, that I really didn’t care that much anyway. With touches of ambivalence, the impetus for a good rant dies the slow agonizing death of “Meh.”
It is truly a bizarre phenomenon indeed. I can usually get my ire in a lurch to spout vitriol about a topic with the merest external urge. One could say, “Did you see how X interacted with Y?” and I would be impelled to respond with a four paragraph soliloquy deriding them for asking me a dreaded word problem without first defining X and Y. I would rant passionately about things I didn’t care about. I could fill pages with odd analogy, poorly coined phrases, and insipid puns about dark vs. light toast. I could generate scathing witticisms that were like fingernails on the chalkboard of discourse, but that seems to be gone…
Has the fire in my belly, a fire fiercer than 1000 suns, a conflagration hot enough to separate the hydrogen from oxygen in water to create more fuel, an inferno of unparallelled thermal dynamism, has that fire truly cooled off? Have I become too holistic in my observances to laser in on one aspect and deny the bigger picture? Have I nurtured my abilities of understanding other reasons for motivation too much, such that now I cannot stand on a box for soap and extol my opinion’s virtues while denigrating the existence of other opinions?
What does this mean for my future? I cannot help but let you readers know that I am scared. Not scared like, “Am I gonna die?” More scared like, “When I open this jug, will the milk be smelly?” but it is fear nonetheless. Two questions come to mind when my idle mind wanders aimlessly in this direction. Question 1: Is this just a temporary set back in my ranting ways? Question 2: Is the ability to become enraged by minutia and convey said ire in the form of an acerbic diatribe necessary for my continued existence? Question 2a: Can I truly be the me that I know and love without the ability to rant poetic? That is a question I cannot answer.
To recap:
The Christmas card is coming along nicely
A few text edits here and there and it will be complete
Then all that is left is the physical production
Stuffing the envelopes
Labeling
And Mailing
See? Easy peasy lemon squeezie
What motivates a risen from the dead mummy after the revenge is meted out?
I mean the sole reason for a mummy returning from the dead is to exact revenge on those who have desecrated his final resting place
That is another question I cannot answer
It is truly a bizarre phenomenon indeed. I can usually get my ire in a lurch to spout vitriol about a topic with the merest external urge. One could say, “Did you see how X interacted with Y?” and I would be impelled to respond with a four paragraph soliloquy deriding them for asking me a dreaded word problem without first defining X and Y. I would rant passionately about things I didn’t care about. I could fill pages with odd analogy, poorly coined phrases, and insipid puns about dark vs. light toast. I could generate scathing witticisms that were like fingernails on the chalkboard of discourse, but that seems to be gone…
Has the fire in my belly, a fire fiercer than 1000 suns, a conflagration hot enough to separate the hydrogen from oxygen in water to create more fuel, an inferno of unparallelled thermal dynamism, has that fire truly cooled off? Have I become too holistic in my observances to laser in on one aspect and deny the bigger picture? Have I nurtured my abilities of understanding other reasons for motivation too much, such that now I cannot stand on a box for soap and extol my opinion’s virtues while denigrating the existence of other opinions?
What does this mean for my future? I cannot help but let you readers know that I am scared. Not scared like, “Am I gonna die?” More scared like, “When I open this jug, will the milk be smelly?” but it is fear nonetheless. Two questions come to mind when my idle mind wanders aimlessly in this direction. Question 1: Is this just a temporary set back in my ranting ways? Question 2: Is the ability to become enraged by minutia and convey said ire in the form of an acerbic diatribe necessary for my continued existence? Question 2a: Can I truly be the me that I know and love without the ability to rant poetic? That is a question I cannot answer.
To recap:
The Christmas card is coming along nicely
A few text edits here and there and it will be complete
Then all that is left is the physical production
Stuffing the envelopes
Labeling
And Mailing
See? Easy peasy lemon squeezie
What motivates a risen from the dead mummy after the revenge is meted out?
I mean the sole reason for a mummy returning from the dead is to exact revenge on those who have desecrated his final resting place
That is another question I cannot answer