“My insistence on inhabiting a universe that others merely visited, if at all, left me lonely. When I found the rare person who shared some substantial portion of my interest, the strength of the connection I felt is, in retrospect, a little shocking. It took quite a deliberate bit of effort to get to the point where I could contain discussion of Star Wars just to appropriate contexts. So I don’t mean to present a dishonestly shiny view of things.”—
"Star Wars" isn’t my *Star Wars*, but hoho: this is not the most subtle metaphorical anecdote.
The fact that the revision history, even when one specifically looks for the image vandalism, appears to include no classically painted Shiba Inus in amusing costumes is slightly disappointing from a critique of internet based shenanigans, sophistry and follow-through point of view.
However, and surely more importantly, starting with the oldest version of articles and clicking forward to see the development of a knowledge base over time is really satisfying in an "I was infuriatingly close to another major in ‘Science and Technology Studies’" kind of way. That’s probably much more interesting with more controversial articles. Or things that have been really gone from ~inception to mainstream in the last 10 years, e.g., Early on, the iPhone was a boy.
Years later, I still think about this piece every once in a while.
Ouroboros! I ate something disgusting and kind of want more of it, and then remembered this article and wanted to read it, and in Googling the memorable phrase deemed most likely to pull it up, my post of the article in the past was what came up. It may be all that remains, due to the change of how Flak is organized.
No snake, no tail: only funyun references.
EDIT: (20140626) Sadder still: despite EdDriscoll maintaining a website with links to the location it was published initially, it seems the only extant copy of the full text is a formatting-lost plagiarized scrape of it in a comments section of an I don’t even know what. Grim are the fortunes of content produced without ownership.
The hunchbacked scientist that I had a crush on indeed had a giant tumor on his back, which has now been removed. I found myself roughly 6% less interested in him upon hearing that. However, he signed forms to freeze and keep the surgical remnants for his own analytical studies, winning that 6% right back because I would totally get in the van if Central European Tom Hulce said “Would you like to go look at my tumor?”
(I would say, “Is naht ah tumah!” and maybe suggest some gentle spooning.)
You have exceeded your allotment of tears for this silly and untenable notional universe. Luckily, you will soon be at a wedding and otherwise untoward hushed sobbing will soon be socially acceptable!
Maybe recheck premises and definitely put off reopening this vein of semi-related implausible possibilities for 12-16 hours.
Life™ Error* Message 201406140201
*The last time she’d wept so hard involved a curious case of robot abandonment, so a silly situation like this is interestingly and diagnostically indicative of some kinda…human growth, and not just emotional/intellectual folly, maybe.
Traveling via sitting and finding one’s balance on the railing of the moving walkway: For any kid who broke herself (yup) jumping off of high places with an umbrella hoping for a physics that just did not take over?
It is heaven.
I have surely broken some subsection D of the social contract, [(22.214.171.124D) Don’t put your butt on things;] but I was wearing a long sweater over a dress over pants over underpants, so there were layers, AND I am ever the ladylike hobo: I have ridden the rails, I ride the rails, and I will ride the rails. Feet a’dangling.
“I have made it so a diagnostically important sample, which you would previously have taken 4 days AT BEST to analyze, can now be equivalently AND superiorly characterized in 3 minutes. You should revere me as FUCKING PROMETHEUS.”—I don’t give voice to all my thoughts because I know when to be a professional. This one obviously went unspoken because, as we know, it seems equally as incongruous for a dog to talk as it is for me to make with the swears.
“You and me, kid; we should stay together—in a post-apocalyptic situation, we’ll survive much longer than these stick people.”—
He had one of those names like Jack but he went by John. Or John and he went by Jack? (It’s literally over half my life ago, which is not the longest time, but not super short either.) He looked like a 60:40 weighted average of Bruno Kirby and Joe Pantoliano, like *maybe* don’t fully trust him in a Matrixsituation, but he could also be your City Slickery pal with whom you could double date and maybe he’d marry Princess Leia in her filofax of bachelors era. Tall (though everyone was/is to me), managerial, very North Jersey, mid-40’s, little thick in the center, etc.
I was not the best candystriper, but I was also really good at certain technical things and the hospital pharmacy was always cool (thermally), and I loved the robot I worked with (early data points on a super weird trendline of inappropriate robot affection!), and the rooms themselves were sufficiently isolated that after I got into trouble for wearing pants under the uniform, he looked me in the puffy, post-weeping-in-a-stairwell eyes, [[ and if memory serves, a SUPER righteously indignant face, because I basically had been told by a nun that I was too covered up, but I liked working there and hated the idea of being in trouble]] and said, “Who gives a crap, you can wear pants in here, and when you’re not in here, you’re on a break. You’re fine.”
Anyhow, after lunch every day our halfshift of the pharmacy staff would go outside and sit on the curb together while 2 or 3 of them would smoke (early data points on a super weird trendline of being a secondary smoker!) and doctors on similar schedules would walk by every day and say “I guess SOMEBODY left the door of the pharmacy open.” and there’d be chuckles and then we’d go back in. This was right around one of those times.
I forget how the subject of mass came up, but it strikes me that if I weren’t a disturbingly self-possessed, albeit pudgy, fake-16-year old [[…also a sudden notion: I have a surprising number of age misrepresentation stories, given few proclivities vis a vis ‘traditional underage wilding’]], this would have been a kinda dangerous thing to say to a young person as capable of trying on all sorts of disordered activities.
The Road wouldn’t be published for years, though I suppose the idea of the 55 types of dramatic situations is persistent in all human mythos. I think I still would survive longer than most, though maybe not in the same way he meant that afternoon. Or maybe not JUST in the way he meant that afternoon. I think about it every time Kevin Smith is on The Mindy Project, though. Which, in turn, I think about every travel day! Guess who’s got 2 thumbs and didn’t get a window or aisle seat? And I’m not sure I really care that much—I’m like a dog: just happy to be in the car. But mostly I would prefer any window. Then an aisle. Then this situation. Gotta buckle down and get through it.
(We didn’t stick together, btw: I turned down a scholarship to proceed directly out of high school to getting a PharmD in Pittsburgh in order to instead become a biologist/chemist/mathematician/ice-hockey player in Ithaca, and I stopped working in the hospital over summers to instead work contract research gigs in Jersey. Though none of those colleagues ever had as Shore-American an accent as he did. And I moved North. Then West. Then Southeast. Then midWest. Lots of Forks in The Road. Like an overturned silverware hauling truck on a dystopian highway.)