The other day I posted something on my facebook and though I said I was joking about the post, I received a comment from, I assume a self-appointed conscious facebook policeman, who after he finished his comment, invite me to “think about it.” As though the comment in itself defied conventional thinking and would elude my intellectual comprehension without a more contemplative consideration. As if it were Descartes or Nietzche. The ostentatious and obvious comment was not all that insightful and did not demand more than a cursory read. As I pointed out I was joking and indicated so, but some don’t get jokes and feel compelled to comment unnecessarily.
But as I did post the comment publicly, I suppose I can’t get too bent over about lame response—except the stupid condescension with the “think about it” comment. That is what bothered me. Think about what, I thought. I did for second and responded. There was not much to considered, but why did he assume that his comment was complex? The self-righteous intellectual superiority did not settle well with me. I think, therefore I am irritated. Well, a variation on Descartes but it’s the idea of it all.
So, then, let’s hold off with the “think about it” stuff for awhile, unless, a comment absolutely demands it. I mean really demands it. Like, for example, what is the point of working—think about it. Or, what is the point of Dancing with the Starts—think about it. Or what is the point of pineapple on pizza? (Alliteration rules.) Or what is the point of alliteration and what does it rule—think about it.
Think about this. Why do people think they need to say “think about it?” Stupid is as stupid does, that’s what I think—think about it.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
The primative sacrifice is alive and well. Hurray for progress
The discussions of appeasing the “budget” remind me of primitive cultures who engaged in human sacrifice. That seems to be what is happening around the country. The god in this case is something called the “budget,” and it needs to be appeased. It must find equilibrium. Indeed, the “budget,” and let’s say this is like Poseidon to Zeus—Zeus, being the ultimate God, the ultimate “god” here is this thing called capitalism, demands sacrifices. However, in this situation no one is killed right away. Instead, it’s a different kind of death altogether, the kind that’s slow, humiliating and entirely preventable.
The sacrificed are the many working people, who are slowly being broken down financially. Their ability to support themselves is of no consequence. They must sacrifice, and so what if they are hampered finically, the budget gods demand it. Though these sacrifices are not connected to one’s virginity; rather it stems from the idea that they should be able to make a decent wage. How dare they.
The richest 1 percent control 90 percent of the wealth in this country. They are also gods, or more like royalty. The notion that they might “sacrifice,” though “sacrifice” hardly applies to these folks, is summarily dismissed and apparently will not appease the ”budget” gods. No, they need another corporate jet or yacht to convey them about the global. The “budget” believes this is not a fair thing to ask these folks to sacrifice; it must be those making 40,000, 50,000 or even 60,000 a year. They must sacrifice.
When I hear the purveyors of appeasement say “redistribution of the wealth” is a bad idea, I say, huh? Allowing people to have the ability to support themselves is a bad idea. Really? Asking the godly rich to pony up more of their supposedly hard-earned money (another entirely bogus and inaccurate phrase) to pay more to help appease the budget god somehow is evil and anti-American. Lord it is socialism. How evil, though people believe in the ideals of social; indeed, these are the very concepts that allowed us to flourish as a species. But none of that should be considered. Perspective, logic and decency are not terms to consider when discussing appeasing the budget gods.
Have you ever felt like you just don’t understand? I am sure that there were a few people who thought, “Throwing a virgin into a volcano is a shittty idea, that there must be a better way.” I no doubt would have been one of those people entirely uncomfortable with sacrificing the innocent to appease a mythical entity.
The sacrificed are the many working people, who are slowly being broken down financially. Their ability to support themselves is of no consequence. They must sacrifice, and so what if they are hampered finically, the budget gods demand it. Though these sacrifices are not connected to one’s virginity; rather it stems from the idea that they should be able to make a decent wage. How dare they.
The richest 1 percent control 90 percent of the wealth in this country. They are also gods, or more like royalty. The notion that they might “sacrifice,” though “sacrifice” hardly applies to these folks, is summarily dismissed and apparently will not appease the ”budget” gods. No, they need another corporate jet or yacht to convey them about the global. The “budget” believes this is not a fair thing to ask these folks to sacrifice; it must be those making 40,000, 50,000 or even 60,000 a year. They must sacrifice.
When I hear the purveyors of appeasement say “redistribution of the wealth” is a bad idea, I say, huh? Allowing people to have the ability to support themselves is a bad idea. Really? Asking the godly rich to pony up more of their supposedly hard-earned money (another entirely bogus and inaccurate phrase) to pay more to help appease the budget god somehow is evil and anti-American. Lord it is socialism. How evil, though people believe in the ideals of social; indeed, these are the very concepts that allowed us to flourish as a species. But none of that should be considered. Perspective, logic and decency are not terms to consider when discussing appeasing the budget gods.
Have you ever felt like you just don’t understand? I am sure that there were a few people who thought, “Throwing a virgin into a volcano is a shittty idea, that there must be a better way.” I no doubt would have been one of those people entirely uncomfortable with sacrificing the innocent to appease a mythical entity.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Why NV Hates Education
In today's paper, there is an excellent article which discusses education and its connection to job creation. The article by Brian Greenspun can be read by following this link http://www.lasvegassun.com/news/2011/feb/13/status-quo-isnt-good-enough-anymore/
Essentially, he reminds what we already know: education leads to business creation and jobs. Sandoval, however, fails to understand this, as by the way, does the majority of myopically strained Republicans. So, then, antithetical to job creation is cutting education funding. Interesting, the only thing the conservatives can consider for balancing the budget is cutting the thing that will create jobs and, oh yeah, generate more tax revenue.
Stupid is a stupid does. Nevada ranks at the bottom of money spent to educate its citizens by a huge margin and the thinking is to cut more spending from education? This makes no sense, unless, one has an interest in maintaining an uneducated workforce. Perhaps, it not quite that nefarious, as this implies the ability to think and plan--I see no evidence of that coming from the Sandoval regime. But, then again.
Being an educator in a state that, at least from the elected leaders, places no value on his efforts is sad and pathetic. Welcome to Fabulous Vegas where we like our citizens uniformed, uneducated and unemployed. Hurray, baby needs a new pair of shoes: give me a seven. That's the only way to make it--sure luck.
Essentially, he reminds what we already know: education leads to business creation and jobs. Sandoval, however, fails to understand this, as by the way, does the majority of myopically strained Republicans. So, then, antithetical to job creation is cutting education funding. Interesting, the only thing the conservatives can consider for balancing the budget is cutting the thing that will create jobs and, oh yeah, generate more tax revenue.
Stupid is a stupid does. Nevada ranks at the bottom of money spent to educate its citizens by a huge margin and the thinking is to cut more spending from education? This makes no sense, unless, one has an interest in maintaining an uneducated workforce. Perhaps, it not quite that nefarious, as this implies the ability to think and plan--I see no evidence of that coming from the Sandoval regime. But, then again.
Being an educator in a state that, at least from the elected leaders, places no value on his efforts is sad and pathetic. Welcome to Fabulous Vegas where we like our citizens uniformed, uneducated and unemployed. Hurray, baby needs a new pair of shoes: give me a seven. That's the only way to make it--sure luck.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
A Student's Name Is Not Mine
This may be the best example of student ineptitude that I can provide. Students submit their papers online, and because I have to download them, I prefer that they save them a certain way. It simply saves me some time. If the papers are not all saved the same way, chaos ensues, as when I return the papers, I am not sure whose paper’s whose. So in order to save time, and not have to re-save them in the manner that is uniform, I had a rather minor, but significant thought: why not ask the students to save it the way I want? Yes, brilliant idea.
So even if only, say, 75% of the students saved the documents the way I ask, it would still save me time. (As all teachers surely understand, one realizes that no matter how clearly, how thoroughly, or how often one presents information, information that requires no thought at all, some students inexplicably fail to follow through—attrition, as it were). So then I supplied instructions as to the manner I want the documents saved. It reads this way on my syllabus:
* Post your outline and paragraphs as a single document and attachment. Use you first initial, period, last name, period and week. For example r.peltier.wk2.
You see I supplied an example using my name. I thought this would be helpful—for one it was not. This apparently confused a student, for, I swear, I received a paper saved r.peltier.wk2. I did not write this paper, I assure you—instead I evaluate them.
This is not a freshman, but rather an adult student. Well, that’s a bit inaccurate as technically the vast majority of college students are “adults.” But this is a non-traditional, a little older than 18ish age, where new concepts, ideas and commonsense are often in short supply. What, I honestly wonder, was the student thinking when she read the instructions? That I wanted every document saved with my name? Though I often have a burdensome ego, it is hardly that large. Seriously, the lack of common sense makes me wonder how people make it through life without a helmet or training wheels for that matter. Perhaps, and I wish I had the balls to do this, I should simply fail the assignment because she failed to follow through with the instructions. Indeed, that would save me some time, which you might recall was the reason for the instructions in the first place.
So even if only, say, 75% of the students saved the documents the way I ask, it would still save me time. (As all teachers surely understand, one realizes that no matter how clearly, how thoroughly, or how often one presents information, information that requires no thought at all, some students inexplicably fail to follow through—attrition, as it were). So then I supplied instructions as to the manner I want the documents saved. It reads this way on my syllabus:
* Post your outline and paragraphs as a single document and attachment. Use you first initial, period, last name, period and week. For example r.peltier.wk2.
You see I supplied an example using my name. I thought this would be helpful—for one it was not. This apparently confused a student, for, I swear, I received a paper saved r.peltier.wk2. I did not write this paper, I assure you—instead I evaluate them.
This is not a freshman, but rather an adult student. Well, that’s a bit inaccurate as technically the vast majority of college students are “adults.” But this is a non-traditional, a little older than 18ish age, where new concepts, ideas and commonsense are often in short supply. What, I honestly wonder, was the student thinking when she read the instructions? That I wanted every document saved with my name? Though I often have a burdensome ego, it is hardly that large. Seriously, the lack of common sense makes me wonder how people make it through life without a helmet or training wheels for that matter. Perhaps, and I wish I had the balls to do this, I should simply fail the assignment because she failed to follow through with the instructions. Indeed, that would save me some time, which you might recall was the reason for the instructions in the first place.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
The Fresh Wait
The other day I came upon my 10 am class. Ten is a little early, so I think mine is the first class of the day in that room. I round the corner and see my students, those who arrived on-time that is, milling about outside the classroom. This is unusual. Most students enter the room and grab a seat and patiently text their friends waiting for the professor to arrive. So I saw the students standing outside the classroom and thought, "Shit, the room door is locked."
Professors do not have keys to the rooms. Most have a Marlok card which provides entry into “tech” rooms; those with overhead projectors and computers. This classroom is not one of those. So I start thinking whom do I call, but then I remembered that these students were freshmen.
So I approached the darkened classroom and opened the unlocked door and invited my students in. The first student had arrived to find a darkened classroom and assumed it was locked. The next one assumed the first one knew that they room was locked. And on and one went this, until I arrived. Replete with experience and education, I first tried to open the door before assuming it was locked.
I almost certainly can guarantee that had my class been an upper division course, in other words with sophomores, juniors, and/or seniors, they would have tried the door first. But that’s what makes freshman so adorable sometimes. They can be like little puppies; awkward and clumsy, but eager and alacritous and not always thinking before acting.
Professors do not have keys to the rooms. Most have a Marlok card which provides entry into “tech” rooms; those with overhead projectors and computers. This classroom is not one of those. So I start thinking whom do I call, but then I remembered that these students were freshmen.
So I approached the darkened classroom and opened the unlocked door and invited my students in. The first student had arrived to find a darkened classroom and assumed it was locked. The next one assumed the first one knew that they room was locked. And on and one went this, until I arrived. Replete with experience and education, I first tried to open the door before assuming it was locked.
I almost certainly can guarantee that had my class been an upper division course, in other words with sophomores, juniors, and/or seniors, they would have tried the door first. But that’s what makes freshman so adorable sometimes. They can be like little puppies; awkward and clumsy, but eager and alacritous and not always thinking before acting.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Capricorn No More. I am Sagittarius.
So I have been living a lie. Granted it was hardly my own doing. Today, the day I was forced into this world against my will, I found out that I am longer a Capricorn. Rather, I am a Sagittarius. The shock of this realization is intense. Suddenly, my identity has been altered. I no longer get along with well with Virgos and Libras. I wonder what my last girlfriend’s sign was. I am sure this factors into the break-up somehow. As a Sagittarius, my ideal sign partner (sounds like a deaf date) is Aries. Aries, according the internets, are symbolized by the ram. The ram has come to represent male fertility, aggression, and courage. This makes it seems as though I might be gay. It says nothing of feminine fecundity, sympathy and compassion. Come to think of it, I have always felt a little off.
As a Capricorn, my animal counter-part is a goat. But now as a Sagittarius, I am the Archer—half-man; half-horse. That’s way better. Capricorns are tenacious, conservative, resourceful, disciplined, wise, ambitious, prudent, and constant. These adjectives do not define me. I am not wise or ambitious. I sat on my fat ass all break. I barely finished one book—a book that was an easy read, to boot. Conservative? No, I’m a liberal. Tenacious? If there’s a long line at the drive-thru, I say fuck this and drive away, hungry. Wise? I can’t even do geometry. What is an obtuse angle? Sounds like an angle that is being a dick and just won't express exactly what it is. Angles are stupid, anyway.
So all along, I was trapped in the wrong sign’s body. Like a woman trapped in a man’s body. And now that I have had my figurative astrology re-assignment surgery—thanks to the science of those astrologers—I can now feel at one with myself. As a Sagittarius, I am optimistic, restless, enthusiastic, adventurous, honest, irresponsible, outspoken, and independent.
My friends often tell me how optimistic I am. For example, someone the other day asked me about God. I said what I believed: that there is no God or after life; the only thing that is real is the now, the right now. Life is a second-to-second existence with no afterlife. When we die, there’s nothing. So you see how truly optimistic I really am. Restless? I have restless-foot syndrome. Enthusiastic? Of course. I am most enthusiastic watching my beloved Lions play football. For example, if they have a big lead, say 6 points, and the other team has the ball with only one minute to play, I am very enthusiastic about their chances of giving up the late score and losing the game.
It is quite a relief to finally understand what I am. I am a Sagittarius. That sounds so sweet.
As a Capricorn, my animal counter-part is a goat. But now as a Sagittarius, I am the Archer—half-man; half-horse. That’s way better. Capricorns are tenacious, conservative, resourceful, disciplined, wise, ambitious, prudent, and constant. These adjectives do not define me. I am not wise or ambitious. I sat on my fat ass all break. I barely finished one book—a book that was an easy read, to boot. Conservative? No, I’m a liberal. Tenacious? If there’s a long line at the drive-thru, I say fuck this and drive away, hungry. Wise? I can’t even do geometry. What is an obtuse angle? Sounds like an angle that is being a dick and just won't express exactly what it is. Angles are stupid, anyway.
So all along, I was trapped in the wrong sign’s body. Like a woman trapped in a man’s body. And now that I have had my figurative astrology re-assignment surgery—thanks to the science of those astrologers—I can now feel at one with myself. As a Sagittarius, I am optimistic, restless, enthusiastic, adventurous, honest, irresponsible, outspoken, and independent.
My friends often tell me how optimistic I am. For example, someone the other day asked me about God. I said what I believed: that there is no God or after life; the only thing that is real is the now, the right now. Life is a second-to-second existence with no afterlife. When we die, there’s nothing. So you see how truly optimistic I really am. Restless? I have restless-foot syndrome. Enthusiastic? Of course. I am most enthusiastic watching my beloved Lions play football. For example, if they have a big lead, say 6 points, and the other team has the ball with only one minute to play, I am very enthusiastic about their chances of giving up the late score and losing the game.
It is quite a relief to finally understand what I am. I am a Sagittarius. That sounds so sweet.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
A Short Story--one in a series
A Cold, Stiff End
The young couple lay next to each other as the open window let an occasional breeze of cool September night air into the small room, drying the residue of their sexual energies. To the man it was a welcome relief—to the woman it was chilly.
He lay on his back as the call of sleep began to wrap itself around him like a warm, cozy cocoon. When her hand wandered over to his arm, he rolled over on his side and pressed against the wall, as was his routine. The bed was small, only a full, but he was determined to move as far away from her as he could. Her hand moved with him, and it still lingered. He felt he had to tolerate its presence—he wanted to move it. As far as he was concerned, there was no more need for physical contact.
She didn’t feel so well and began to feel worse. Her mind was processing thought upon thought. Why do I have this empty feeling? Why do I feel completely alone?DoeshereallylovemecanheeverlovemecanImakehimlovemewhyamIherewhyamIsooocoldandempty? Everything seemed to be racing through her mind. She was disconcerted and nauseous. She rolled over and snuggled up to him, but he was unresponsive. She wanted him to respond to her in any way other than sexual. It was becoming more and more clear that she needed more than sex in their relationship. Sex was not the sustenance in a relationship, she understood suddenly.
“Honey are you awake?” she asked.
Thirty seconds passed before he responded. “I was trying to get to sleep. I was almost there.” He was not interested in pursuing “the” conversation, and it registered in his voice.
“I’m sorry, but I need to talk. I feel, I feel so very cold.”
“Shut the window, then.” He was speaking to the wall. It was cool and felt good against his warm body.
“It’s not that. It’s something different. Something different,” she said as if she knew what it was, but couldn’t quite articulate what she felt. She wasn’t sure if words were insufficient to describe it or that she didn’t possess the vocabulary. She was compelled to express herself however, so she proceeded carefully, like walking on a slick frozen pond.
Not this shit again, he thought. He almost didn’t want to have sex with her because she always pulled this shit. He just couldn’t understand what her problem was. She always wanted to talk about something. Man she can be irritating, he thought. There was nothing to discuss. They just had sex, no big deal, and now he was tired. He felt she was deliberately trying to agitate him, and it usually worked; he was mildly irritated to say the least. She sensed his irritation. A short while passed before she spoke. She would proceed step by careful step.
“Why do you move away from me?” She started at the most basic level. She wasn’t sure what else to say.
“I was tired and trying to give you room.”
“But I don’t mind if we stay cuddled up together. I like that. It makes me feel connected to you. I want to mean something to you.”
“Well, I need space to sleep. It’s too hot and uncomfortable, so I need to make some room to sleep. We’ve been through all this before.” Although he was agitated, his drowsiness dulled it. He was hoping she might shut the hell up so he could sleep. What else did she want for me, he thought. Goddamn it.
“I know, but something doesn’t feel right with me. I mean, I feel really cold.” Although there was a profound seriousness in her voice, he wasn’t concerned enough to discern it. He barely comprehended what she said. “Shut the window then,” he mumbled. Sleep was a stronger influence than her stupid issues, and besides it was always the same with her anyway. He was slipping into sleep and was comforted by the thought that he’d wake up and have sex with her in the morning—his sincere and only attempt to assuage her.
She snuggled up to him and pressed her cheek to his back. Something wasn’t right at all, and panic was beginning to course through her. “I love you,” she whispered into his ear. He was awake, but pretended not to hear. He was so sick and tired of being dragged into this conversation. He just wanted to sleep. What was so wrong with that? He chose to ignore her, like normal, and resigned himself to make her feel better in the morning. He was warm.
“Do you love me?” It was an important question she always asked. He usually said he did, but she sensed insincerity to it. She wanted to believe, so she constructed many rationales to convince herself that he was indeed genuine with that sentiment. She knew his parents divorced when he was young and thought this was the reason he had trouble opening up to her. She thought that if she loved him enough, he would love her back. That love’s all you need to reach someone. But now she wasn’t so sure and her suspicion was reaching its apex. For some reason she was unable to understand, she desperately needed to know if he loved her or felt anything for her other than sex. The thought that he might love her sparked a locus of warmth in her stomach—a small shred of hope, which she did not believe was true. The warmth quickly dissipated with that specious thought and fueled the coldness, which started in her stomach, and branched out numbing her limbs. It was creeping up toward her head and centering in her chest. She was beginning to feel sleepy. Her body felt numb, like frostbitten ear lobes—a lack of feeling when you knew there was sensation before.
“Rodney, I need to know. Please wake up.” She shook him, gently then more violently. But her strength was limited and she got tired quickly. “Rodney, do you love me? I need an answer. Please. Help me.”
He felt the edges of sleep welcome him with a warm embrace. It felt so good after a hard night’s work, too. His body was tired and needed to rejuvenate itself. His mind became aware of some call, a type of beckoning, but as was his custom he chose to ignore it. He lay there and finally, when her cold hand slipped off his body, the warmth of sleep ensconced him, like a child’s favorite blanket his mother had just wrapped around him on a chilly winter’s day.
When he woke in the morning, he felt really good, great in fact. He was well rested and horny. He vaguely recalled some dilemma his girlfriend was experiencing the night before, but he wasn’t concerned. She was prone to creating problems for herself, he thought. He was confident that he could rectify her problem now. Why interfere with a person’s sleep when all could be cured in the morning?
The window let in a ray of sunlight which fell across his exposed foot. Its warmth felt virtuous, in some strange way, as he could sense the vivacity contained within the ray. It occurred to him that life needed warmth and how that was important. Inspired by his cognizance, he decided to give his girlfriend some warmth. He rolled over to his girlfriend and proceeded to mount her. Although rigormortis had stiffened her and she was a bluish purple, it took him a full fifteen seconds before he realized something was not right. He felt a penetrating coldness.
The window let in an occasional breeze of cool September morning air on the man and the dead woman.
The young couple lay next to each other as the open window let an occasional breeze of cool September night air into the small room, drying the residue of their sexual energies. To the man it was a welcome relief—to the woman it was chilly.
He lay on his back as the call of sleep began to wrap itself around him like a warm, cozy cocoon. When her hand wandered over to his arm, he rolled over on his side and pressed against the wall, as was his routine. The bed was small, only a full, but he was determined to move as far away from her as he could. Her hand moved with him, and it still lingered. He felt he had to tolerate its presence—he wanted to move it. As far as he was concerned, there was no more need for physical contact.
She didn’t feel so well and began to feel worse. Her mind was processing thought upon thought. Why do I have this empty feeling? Why do I feel completely alone?DoeshereallylovemecanheeverlovemecanImakehimlovemewhyamIherewhyamIsooocoldandempty? Everything seemed to be racing through her mind. She was disconcerted and nauseous. She rolled over and snuggled up to him, but he was unresponsive. She wanted him to respond to her in any way other than sexual. It was becoming more and more clear that she needed more than sex in their relationship. Sex was not the sustenance in a relationship, she understood suddenly.
“Honey are you awake?” she asked.
Thirty seconds passed before he responded. “I was trying to get to sleep. I was almost there.” He was not interested in pursuing “the” conversation, and it registered in his voice.
“I’m sorry, but I need to talk. I feel, I feel so very cold.”
“Shut the window, then.” He was speaking to the wall. It was cool and felt good against his warm body.
“It’s not that. It’s something different. Something different,” she said as if she knew what it was, but couldn’t quite articulate what she felt. She wasn’t sure if words were insufficient to describe it or that she didn’t possess the vocabulary. She was compelled to express herself however, so she proceeded carefully, like walking on a slick frozen pond.
Not this shit again, he thought. He almost didn’t want to have sex with her because she always pulled this shit. He just couldn’t understand what her problem was. She always wanted to talk about something. Man she can be irritating, he thought. There was nothing to discuss. They just had sex, no big deal, and now he was tired. He felt she was deliberately trying to agitate him, and it usually worked; he was mildly irritated to say the least. She sensed his irritation. A short while passed before she spoke. She would proceed step by careful step.
“Why do you move away from me?” She started at the most basic level. She wasn’t sure what else to say.
“I was tired and trying to give you room.”
“But I don’t mind if we stay cuddled up together. I like that. It makes me feel connected to you. I want to mean something to you.”
“Well, I need space to sleep. It’s too hot and uncomfortable, so I need to make some room to sleep. We’ve been through all this before.” Although he was agitated, his drowsiness dulled it. He was hoping she might shut the hell up so he could sleep. What else did she want for me, he thought. Goddamn it.
“I know, but something doesn’t feel right with me. I mean, I feel really cold.” Although there was a profound seriousness in her voice, he wasn’t concerned enough to discern it. He barely comprehended what she said. “Shut the window then,” he mumbled. Sleep was a stronger influence than her stupid issues, and besides it was always the same with her anyway. He was slipping into sleep and was comforted by the thought that he’d wake up and have sex with her in the morning—his sincere and only attempt to assuage her.
She snuggled up to him and pressed her cheek to his back. Something wasn’t right at all, and panic was beginning to course through her. “I love you,” she whispered into his ear. He was awake, but pretended not to hear. He was so sick and tired of being dragged into this conversation. He just wanted to sleep. What was so wrong with that? He chose to ignore her, like normal, and resigned himself to make her feel better in the morning. He was warm.
“Do you love me?” It was an important question she always asked. He usually said he did, but she sensed insincerity to it. She wanted to believe, so she constructed many rationales to convince herself that he was indeed genuine with that sentiment. She knew his parents divorced when he was young and thought this was the reason he had trouble opening up to her. She thought that if she loved him enough, he would love her back. That love’s all you need to reach someone. But now she wasn’t so sure and her suspicion was reaching its apex. For some reason she was unable to understand, she desperately needed to know if he loved her or felt anything for her other than sex. The thought that he might love her sparked a locus of warmth in her stomach—a small shred of hope, which she did not believe was true. The warmth quickly dissipated with that specious thought and fueled the coldness, which started in her stomach, and branched out numbing her limbs. It was creeping up toward her head and centering in her chest. She was beginning to feel sleepy. Her body felt numb, like frostbitten ear lobes—a lack of feeling when you knew there was sensation before.
“Rodney, I need to know. Please wake up.” She shook him, gently then more violently. But her strength was limited and she got tired quickly. “Rodney, do you love me? I need an answer. Please. Help me.”
He felt the edges of sleep welcome him with a warm embrace. It felt so good after a hard night’s work, too. His body was tired and needed to rejuvenate itself. His mind became aware of some call, a type of beckoning, but as was his custom he chose to ignore it. He lay there and finally, when her cold hand slipped off his body, the warmth of sleep ensconced him, like a child’s favorite blanket his mother had just wrapped around him on a chilly winter’s day.
When he woke in the morning, he felt really good, great in fact. He was well rested and horny. He vaguely recalled some dilemma his girlfriend was experiencing the night before, but he wasn’t concerned. She was prone to creating problems for herself, he thought. He was confident that he could rectify her problem now. Why interfere with a person’s sleep when all could be cured in the morning?
The window let in a ray of sunlight which fell across his exposed foot. Its warmth felt virtuous, in some strange way, as he could sense the vivacity contained within the ray. It occurred to him that life needed warmth and how that was important. Inspired by his cognizance, he decided to give his girlfriend some warmth. He rolled over to his girlfriend and proceeded to mount her. Although rigormortis had stiffened her and she was a bluish purple, it took him a full fifteen seconds before he realized something was not right. He felt a penetrating coldness.
The window let in an occasional breeze of cool September morning air on the man and the dead woman.
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