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The following was written for a creative writing class I took when I was 15.

I held the shaky screen door as my girlfriend walked out. We walked slowly, hand in hand, over the little grassy hill she and I had played on with our friends a long time ago. Down the driveway, where I had waited on my bike so many times, waiting for her to come out and play. Away from the ballfield where I had watched her practice at time and again. Toward the pain that is separation. The drive back to our house is too fast, passing many things I always wanted to do, but never will.

My dad works for an environmental agency, and he’s rather good at it. When one job ends, another one starts, most of the time on the other side of the continent. It’s always something. We have been moving a lot lately, every SEASON in Alaska, so you’d kind of think I’d be used to it by now. We have been packing for the past week. We live in a house with no beds, no chairs, and worse yet, no TV. There is almost nothing to do there at all, except for maybe play a game of cards with my brothers. But that gets old fast. I spent most of the last month at my girlfriend’s house. As I slowly say goodbye to all the people I know, I watch my time in this place get shorter and shorter, until, at last, it is the day before we leave. Tomorrow morning, at 7:00 A.M., my family will cease to live in the great province of Nova Scotia. We’re moving to Pittsburgh. Big whoop. Like I know anybody in Pittsburgh.

After saying goodbye to the rooms that were my companions for one and a half years, I walk toward the two figures standing by the big brown van. As I securely fasten myself into the van, the van that will put thousands of miles between my girlfriend and me, the ignition key is turned, and the gentle breeze carrying the singing bird’s song is replaced by the cough of a too old engine. As we drive away from the parts of familiarity, I am sure I never want to do this again.

 Note: Part of the class involved passing around what you wrote and having your classmates provide critical feedback. I remember one girl being incredibly offended that I wasn’t absolutely excited to move to Pittsburgh. “Some people really like Pittsburgh,” she said indignantly. I tried to explain that the assignment was to describe an especially vivid memory, but she wasn’t receptive. At that point I knew my central thesis had been conclusively proven: everyone from Pittsburgh sucks.

I write because there isn’t always someone there to listen, but I want to talk anyway. I write because it forces me to actually think about what I thought I understood. I write because I can fool myself sometimes, but not when it’s sitting in front of me.

I write because of a handful of comments I’ve received from peers, who’ve said, “Man, I think the stuff you write is really interesting, I’m impressed”. I write because of all the comments I haven’t received. I write because I know people I respect occasionally read it, and I want them to think of me as a mythical manbeast who walks with his head held high. I want them to think of me as someone who is or one day might be important in the grand scheme of something … anything. I want to imply depth, insight and jaw-dropping humanity.

I write because of the time someone sat in my lap and said straight to my face, “So I read your blog the other day, I really liked the one you wrote about originality.” I write on the off chance that someone I know or someone I don’t will be instantly entranced, that I will transform from “just another guy” into an intellectual and emotional powerhouse with high earning potential who’s probably a lot of fun behind closed doors.

I write because it’s a world that’s entirely of my own creation. I write because I get to call blog posts whatever I want, and I chose chapters. I write because while my memory isn’t perfect, a SQL table tends to be.

I write because I’m an introvert who doesn’t always say what he thinks, but tends to think what he says. I write because Notepad has always understood me. I write because I can occasionally turn a phrase that sticks in at least my head. I write because the act of furiously typing out a thought can put me into a sleep sounder than any caused by physical exhaustion.

I write so that years from now I can sit reading silly words and phrases and smile to myself, because I remember.

To consider R. Kelly as just “your favorite rapper’s favorite singer” is to do him a grave injustice. From Space Jam to Sparkle, Mr Kelly has been responsible for an incredible volume of professional output. As with many of the great individuals in history, Mr Kelly can be considered a true polymath: singer, songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, record producer, actor, lover, director, playwright, and last but not least … mathematician.

Consider the lyrics to the 2007 remix of Fat Joe’s “Make it Rain”:

Don’t ask me what my name is, stupid bitch I’m famous
…
You see I order one bottle, then I f*ck with one model
Then I order more bottles, now I got more models

A subpar rapper might be content spitting a lyric such as “I ordered some bottles and I got with some models”. Lyrical quality notwithstanding, this gives the listener little to no information regarding how bottles might be functionally related to models. Do models come with bottles? Do bottles come with models? What function best describes the relationship between bottles and models? What quality and quantity of bottles do I need acquire in order to receive models?

Mr Kelly was obviously not content to simply imply that he does in fact possess both bottles and models, and instead took it a step further and implies a specific relationship between bottles and models. The lyric “You see I ordered one bottle and then I f*ck with one model” provides a wealth of knowledge regarding the reality in which Mr Kelly resides. He appears to imply that models are functionally related to bottles, and even provides a coordinate pair from which to work from.

With the next line, “Then I order more bottles, now I got more models”, Mr Kelly gives us the final piece of the puzzle.

There you have it. The function relating bottles to the resultant models has a floor of 2 models for all values of 2 bottles and higher. Is having 10 bottles better than 5? Mr Kelly doesn’t seem to provide this information in “Make it rain”, but if Trapped in the Closet can be any indication he will continue to provide clues throughout his future releases. The final question of the day comes from the above lyrics, and posits whether we can even equate the phrases “f*ck with one model” and “got more models”. Are “f*ck with” and “got” mathematically equivalent?

As far as Mr Kelly is concerned, I’d like to think they are.

1. Miles driven in the last 14 days: 3,474
2. Percentage by which this increased the mileage of my parent’s car: 27%
3. People who have learned to drive stick shift through my instruction: ≥11
4. People who have learned to drive stick shift on the current transmission of my families ’96 Honda Civic: ~16
5. Minimum number of ways I can walk to work via paved roads: 4,213
6. Patent applications I’ve examined or I’m in the process of examining: 60
7. Patent applications I’ve issued (i.e. have let become patents): 3
8. Factor by which my all-nighters at work outnumber my all-nighters in college: 10
9. Number of Google searches I’ve made since April 20, 2005: 14,765
10. Average number of searches per day, given the above: 17.5
11. Average length of time it takes me to beat Quake, start to finish: 45 minutes
12. Factor by which the computers I’ve owned outnumber the girls I’ve dated: 2
13. Magic the Gathering decks in my dining room, ready to play: 25
14. Hardest rated rock climb I’ve ever led successfully: 5.9
15. Ordered set of homes I’ve lived in for more than a month, by state: New Mexico, Ohio, Texas, Texas, Alaska, Pennsylvania, Alaska, Alaska, Nova Scotia, Pennsylvania, Utah, Ohio, Utah, Ohio, Ohio, Virginia and Virginia.
16. Number of countries bagged: 18
17. Number of countries to go: 176 to 185, depending on who you ask
18. Number of states bagged: 50
19. Warrants that have been issued for my arrest, plus those issued for others because of my actions: 3 or more
20. Number of bullet holes in that sign: ~71

There are some things money can’t buy. For everything else … keep looking.

Merriam-Webster says:

Under soda, definition 2a says: see soda pop.
Under pop, usage 2’s definition 3 says: see soda pop.

Soda pop, of course, is defined as a beverage consisting of soda water, flavoring. and a sweet syrup.

If someone says soda in a context in which a reasonable person could assume they were talking about a beverage of some sort, then that reasonable person might possibly and without further comment construe they were referring to soda pop. Likewise, if I were to ask someone, “Hey, you got any pop?”, it would be reasonable to expect that rather than self righteously divulging his or her personal preference in slang terminology, they might just answer the question. Instead, we argue over whether it’s called soda or pop, or soda pop, or heaven forbid just “coke“. Because of course one of them is the right answer.

The problem is that none of them are the right choice. They’re just words that are shorthand for soft drink. Whether you say pop or soda has absolutely no relevance in any possible interpretation of any grand scheme of ANYTHING. So why do we argue?

Because we, as human beings, are incredibly fine tuned into noticing and ostracizing each other for the tiniest differences, no matter how inconsequential. Your favorite sports team, music, food, the color of your hair (/eyes/skin/pants), your locality, nationality, religion, anything. Even our choice in what we call certain tasty beverages.

And that’s why we’re doomed. Doomed to argue over things that don’t matter. What do you think happens when we have to argue over things that really do matter?

I’ll give you a hint: we’re all gonna die.