It’s four in the morning and I’m going to tell you about one of my arch-nemesis… nemesii… nemiseses… nemi-something. Geeze… do they have to make that word such an irritating one to make plural?
Anyway, it’s not really an arch-nemesis nor is it a friend. Well, it’s more of a friend but it’s also a stalker.
It is…
[b]Forty-two.[/b]
Yes… [i]that[/i] number.
The number that Douglas Adams wrote about. It is the answer to the question of life, the universe, and everything. Marvin might even start [url=http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=flollop]flolloping around like a mattress[/url] if he knew the relationship that Adams’ numerical relationship caused me. I mean yeah, he probably wouldn’t… brain the size of a planet, he’d probably complain endlessly about job satisfaction, but still, I’m missing the point.
You see… forty-two stalks me.
It’s not a relationship whereby forty-two people stalk me, nor do forty-two year olds, though either wouldn’t surprise me in the least.
Everywhere I go, an instance of forty-two usually creeps up on me for… I am the hunted. The hunted of forty-two.
Ok, sure, I could be looking for it. But I also might not be and this strange coincidence of numbers and the everlasting infinite probability that should allow other numbers — any of the billions of them — to visit me for once instead of this cascade of forty-two should theoretically happen.
Take for instance at dinner the other day.
Dad, my brother, my grandmother on my Dad’s side, and myself went out to dinner. We were celebrating my brother’s graduation (more on that with pics in a few days), my Dad’s birthday, and Mother’s Day. Fittingly, we Jews were at a Chinese restaurant. A severely over-priced Chinese restaurant. Go there only if [url=http://westfield.com/bondijunction/ourstores/details/23295/]you don’t have a problem being charged 8.40 for one pot of tea[/url] shared between 3 people (as an example).
So there we were… Seated… Being attended on by the staff… Talking amongst our selves… When I noticed the table number…
[img]https://www.leighlo.com/uploads/random/2007/05-42Dinner-01.jpg[/img]
Well what a shock that is, he says sarcastically. I pointed it out to Dad who smiled. Dad follows along with the numerical stalker issue, though I expect he thinks that it’s all in my head. It probably is, mind you, but that doesn’t make it any less real for me.
Later on when we got home, I was emptying out my phone’s memory card by transferring it’s digital camera images to my computer. Guess what I saw…
[img]https://www.leighlo.com/uploads/random/2007/05-42Dinner-02.jpg[/img]
Oh sure, you could mock me, but this is just a taste of what life is like for me.
Forty-two is stalking me. It is. I know it is. I just have to find out why.
Unluckily for me, the fortune cookie after the Chinese meal had no intention of helping me out in any way.
As soon as I’d read mine, I realised how kitschy it was. I even got everyone else on our table (all three of them) to read out theirs. None of them quite had it so… kitsch.
So here… I present to you our next topic of discussion… your protective-coating fortune…
[img]https://www.leighlo.com/uploads/random/2007/05-42Dinner-03.jpg[/img]
Yes ladies and gentleman, [b]”Hating hate does not mean you love love”[/b].
How insightful. How genius. How… how…
How much of a load of bollocks is that bloody fortune?! I mean come on… what the hell am I supposed to do with that fortune, aside for maybe make a wise suppository for someone whose ass could do with being just a tad bit more intelligible (which this fortune probably won’t be able to help with).
Further, duh. Hating hate doesn’t mean you love love. Well, no. No one can make you love love. Hell, you might only like love. You might hate love. You might love hate and hate love.
Still you could take it another way. If you look at that phrase as you would a series of words or phrases used in the English language, you might opt to look at it from the point of a “double negative”. That is, you might sit there and say “well hang on, if I hate hate, I’m actually sitting on a double negative which in turn turns my hate to a positive which in this case means.. love… or at the bare minimum, like.”
So based on that sort of logic, “hating hate means you at least must like love” in some way or another.
Stupid fortune cookie. I probably got the forty-second one of the night. That would explain a lot.