It is often said that there is an art to procrastination. This elevates the said activity or lack there of, to a some kind of noble quest. See I could work hard, but I choose not to - because I am better than that. The truth is that there is a lack of motivation for the activity involved. Either there is a lack of reward in the proper way or a lack of substantial enough punishment for the lack of progress.
A familiar story, and expected commentary from the howling masses. I was listening to Tony Kornheiser ranting about sportswriting and never receiving a Pulitzer, and he mentioned how his former editor Gene Weingarten received one for his story about parents who in a moment of terrible forgetfulness, left their children to die in hot, parked cars. It is should be REQUIRED reading for anybody who thinks about commenting on such stories.
Andrew Sullivan had a series of blog posts on the possibility of animal suicide. This led to an interesting digression about parasites that change the behavior of its insect and rodent hosts. These organisms lead the hosts to certain death situations for the benefit of the parasites. The speculation is that there may be parasitic explanations for strange mammalian (including human) behaviors like the case of the penguin above. Of course it doesn't make sense for the penguin, as it was heading inland and away from other possible hosts.
What particularly was poignant about the video was how the penguin stood in place for a while - like it was contemplating something profound. Once it makes up its mind, the bird becomes relentless in its pace, only sliding on its belly for a bit. I don't know whether to be sad or impressed.
The above machine is an anal probe found at a proctologist's clinic. This and much more about rectums, anuses, stool, and farts can be read here.
When I was younger, I was terrified of the dark. Unknown nefarious creatures with sharp claws and sharper teeth would be just out of view, waiting for some body part to be exposed - just waiting, in the black darkness, for chance to grab my leg or arm. I used to take refuge in the warmth of the blanket - its magic would protect me, as long as all my limbs were covered. At times, I would even sink my head in and roll myself around, giggling at the imagined monsters who vented their fury at their futility to reach me inside the barrier of cotton and thread. Silly now that I think about it. Now that I'm grown up, I am no longer afraid of the dark. It may be the familiarities of the surroundings - the same places that we travel to and fro, performing our mundane tasks. The choirs of adulthood. There is nothing scary anymore about the blackness of night. Some may say that I've matured. I rather believe that it's my lack of imagination. I don't dream much anymore - or if I do, I don't remember them. The few that I do remember are bitter and saccharine. I feel worse for having remembered them. What was I writing about? Oh yes. Darkness. There is a comfort in darkness now. A black barrier between me and the rest of the world. I wish it could be dark all the time now.
Via: Online Schools
