Don't Mind the Median Sometimes staring is warranted. Sitting next to my computer is a half-empty two liter of Dr Pepper and a book labeled Quantum Field Theory, the latter of which is covered with notes overtaken by the brazen display of a lax attention span. I don't know what the means either. Sometime during the course of the night that considerably diminished container of cola will be knocked over, no doubt ruining the ruminations of my Tuesday lecture and leaving the weekend free to fret until I finally break down on Monday night and scribble down ten reasons why someone would ever want to be a Physicist. Somehow I still have a job. What is this? Your guess is as good as my opinion. Maybe it's procrastination, maybe I just want people to like me, but if I had to lie I'd say it was a collection of thoughts, meanderings, and off-kilter philosophy fueled by the unhinged mind of the modern grunge artist. I know what you're thinking. "Wow Greg, you're super creative and I'm so glad you decided to make this a scrapbook instead of a blog." And while, yes, I do appreciate your wonderful sentiments, my understanding between the Scrapping of Books and Blogging of Ideas hazes somewhere between the line of Scrapping and Ideas. Besides, here I get to post pictures and music. I'm thrilled to be back here. My hiatus was filled with psychobabble and enough drama to write its own Oscar nomination, but the real crime of my departure was the loss of a creative outlet. Or an outlet at least. And I realize in my sudden, unwarranted disappearing act I left behind responsibilities and several folks hanging from the edge of the cliff. If words could fix it I'd write you all a sonnet. In the mean time here, have a kitten. Isn't he cute? Don't mind the distraction. That's just a convenient breaking point. I'm not good at formal apologies. My memory is about as balanced as a penguin on acid, so let it be known that free shots to the balls will be tolerated at the discretion of my ego. Two points if you make me cry. I'm sure in some future endeavor of this book of scraps I'll contemplate the true nature of fast fooding and easy bake dinners, but my playlist grows thin of witty anecdotes and stern-toned language. The voice of Morgan Freeman is now reading this in your mind. Adieu friends, lovers, and countrymen, from the bowls of the Ohioan Grad Slave Pits, I bid you good fortune on the morrow. Extra Credit :
"Like my father always said, If worst comes to worst we're screwed." |