Because life is *still* random! And I don't want to look at my paper right now!
I don't like cooked fruit...
I don't like apple pie. Or james or jellies. Or poptarts/cookies/cakes/deserts that involve cooked fruit. I *tried,* the other day, to have a little bite of apple pie...just to see if my aversion still stood. And it does! Why (why?!?) would you take something so perfectly engineered as an apple (snack-sized, comes in it's own wrapping, really sweet, but still good for you, smells like fall, etc.) and cut it up and bake it and make it all...slimy? Ew. And then jelly. Jelly has been a historical no-no for me. Ask my mom. She's the one who packed my lunch in pre-school. Hmm...but maybe I'm not so much anti-jelly as I am pro-peanut butter sandwhich. Really, what could be better than a nice peanut butter sandwhich? With a glass of coke, even? You put the jelly on there and you get...extraneous wigglage. The jelly becomes the magma upon which the tectonic plates of your bread tend to float; increasing the overall messiness of the sandwhich, posing the threat of squishy, liquidous, jelly-soaked bread, and distracting from your sandwhich's main event: the peanut butter. As for the poptarts, etc...I'm sure if I were really hungry, or you know, a little curious...I'd probably eat something along those lines. I have, for instance, been known to try a lemon bar here and there...but really...if you're going to eat something good for you, pick up that piece of fruit. If you're going to eat desert, there might as well be vast amounts of chocolate involved. Go for the gold.
Sublimity and Super Wal-Marts
Edmund Burke, in his Inquiry into the Sublime and the Beautiful, describes the sublime thusly: WHATEVER is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain and danger, that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about terrible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of the sublime.
He also relates the sublime to things that are very, very big. Like mountains. So big that their bigness is incomprehensible, makes one afriad or even terrified.
And this, my friends, is the modern condition of the Super Wal-Mart. Although generally looked down upon for their low-brow target group of clientelle, I can't say that my experience with regular Wal-Mart stores was ever very bad. When it comes right down to it, lots of times they have the same stuff that everyone else has, it's just a buck or two cheaper. If you need more soap, go to Wal-Mart. If you need some more t-shirts to work out in, and are just going to sweat in them anyway, go to Wal-Mart. If you would like some new lucky socks, and are interested in purchasing a pair that feautres Sponge Bob Square Pants, go to Wal-Mart. But woe unto you who enters a Super Wal-Mart without your wits about you. They just put in this Wal-Mart superstore a few miles from my house. And it has everything. Groceries, autobody shop, regular merchanidse, home repair and gardening. Everything. But it is too inexpressibly huge. Even the parking lot is terrifying. Worse than the mall, and full of slow-walking children that can barely be seen over the hood of your car. And then. You get inside. And you're like, "Holy crap. I am going to die." Because you don't even know where to start. There are signs that hang from the ceiling, telling you the contents of each aisle. But they stretch as far as the eye can see, and suddenly you feel as if you have gone prematurely senile: you can't see the signs in the distance, you keep walking around in circles with the vague feeling that you have visited certain display stands before, and after a while you forget what you're even doing there and you just want to go home. After searching for half an hour for the door you used to some in, you get into the parking lot and have no IDEA where your car is among the ocean of honda civics that you see there.
Terror. Dispair. Super Wal-Marts.
I don't like cooked fruit...
I don't like apple pie. Or james or jellies. Or poptarts/cookies/cakes/deserts that involve cooked fruit. I *tried,* the other day, to have a little bite of apple pie...just to see if my aversion still stood. And it does! Why (why?!?) would you take something so perfectly engineered as an apple (snack-sized, comes in it's own wrapping, really sweet, but still good for you, smells like fall, etc.) and cut it up and bake it and make it all...slimy? Ew. And then jelly. Jelly has been a historical no-no for me. Ask my mom. She's the one who packed my lunch in pre-school. Hmm...but maybe I'm not so much anti-jelly as I am pro-peanut butter sandwhich. Really, what could be better than a nice peanut butter sandwhich? With a glass of coke, even? You put the jelly on there and you get...extraneous wigglage. The jelly becomes the magma upon which the tectonic plates of your bread tend to float; increasing the overall messiness of the sandwhich, posing the threat of squishy, liquidous, jelly-soaked bread, and distracting from your sandwhich's main event: the peanut butter. As for the poptarts, etc...I'm sure if I were really hungry, or you know, a little curious...I'd probably eat something along those lines. I have, for instance, been known to try a lemon bar here and there...but really...if you're going to eat something good for you, pick up that piece of fruit. If you're going to eat desert, there might as well be vast amounts of chocolate involved. Go for the gold.
Sublimity and Super Wal-Marts
Edmund Burke, in his Inquiry into the Sublime and the Beautiful, describes the sublime thusly: WHATEVER is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain and danger, that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about terrible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of the sublime.
He also relates the sublime to things that are very, very big. Like mountains. So big that their bigness is incomprehensible, makes one afriad or even terrified.
And this, my friends, is the modern condition of the Super Wal-Mart. Although generally looked down upon for their low-brow target group of clientelle, I can't say that my experience with regular Wal-Mart stores was ever very bad. When it comes right down to it, lots of times they have the same stuff that everyone else has, it's just a buck or two cheaper. If you need more soap, go to Wal-Mart. If you need some more t-shirts to work out in, and are just going to sweat in them anyway, go to Wal-Mart. If you would like some new lucky socks, and are interested in purchasing a pair that feautres Sponge Bob Square Pants, go to Wal-Mart. But woe unto you who enters a Super Wal-Mart without your wits about you. They just put in this Wal-Mart superstore a few miles from my house. And it has everything. Groceries, autobody shop, regular merchanidse, home repair and gardening. Everything. But it is too inexpressibly huge. Even the parking lot is terrifying. Worse than the mall, and full of slow-walking children that can barely be seen over the hood of your car. And then. You get inside. And you're like, "Holy crap. I am going to die." Because you don't even know where to start. There are signs that hang from the ceiling, telling you the contents of each aisle. But they stretch as far as the eye can see, and suddenly you feel as if you have gone prematurely senile: you can't see the signs in the distance, you keep walking around in circles with the vague feeling that you have visited certain display stands before, and after a while you forget what you're even doing there and you just want to go home. After searching for half an hour for the door you used to some in, you get into the parking lot and have no IDEA where your car is among the ocean of honda civics that you see there.
Terror. Dispair. Super Wal-Marts.
1 Comments:
I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich yesterday...and i thought of you, kat.
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