More on Emotions

So, for the last week or so, every couple minutes, I’ve been recording how I feel. Now, this sounds like something a half baked therapist would tell me to do when I’ve been complaining about something. But here I am, no therapist, doing it. Why? It sounded “deep” and I needed space on my podcast. But, I don’t know. I felt like doing it. And so, I decided I’d run with it. I wanted to do this in a half way scientific way, so I decided from the moment I woke up to the moment I go to sleep, I’d try to record how I felt at 10 min intervals for a week. This, I figured would give me enough data to look at after the experiment was done. And immediately I hit a roadblock. I have no idea how to describe how I feel. I don’t feel in English. I don’t know how to put in words how I feel most of the time. I looked up a couple systems that people have created to categorize emotions, so I could have a “toolkit”, so as to speak, to allow myself to describe my emotions.











This is one of such emotion palletes that I looked into to help me describe how I felt. But the single words that they all offered me didn’t seem to encompass all the things that I could feel. I mean how could I try to condense the emotion that I had at Noodle Gourmet, deciding whether to get watermelon or taro bubble tea, deciding taro, realizing I wanted watermelon all along, but taro was good as well? I don’t feel with an eye to be described in words. But then, what do I do? I decided that trying to fit emotions in the model that they set out might be useful for a scientific setting, but, that’s not exactly how they work. I figured I’d just write the first word that came to mind describing my emotional state, since that might allow more nuance and specificity. So, I started doing that.


I started to consider what this might do for me. I mean I know it’s good be “aware of oneself”, but other than that what might this do? I started to wonder if doing this was really what I felt. What if doing this actively made me adjust how I felt in response to the things I was recording? Like if I saw that I said I was sad a couple times in a row, I might think about that and change it for the next time. Making it not what I normally would feel in this scenario. And then I asked myself, “Isn’t that the point?” It wasn’t the point to find out the emotions I was feeling. The point was to find out what knowing what I was feeling at any one time would do for me. And apparently it gave me a greater impetus to change what I was feeling to something more agreeable. Which, I mean, sounds pretty good. If I see that I’m bored for a whole day, the next day I might just do something unusual. Something that I wouldn’t have done otherwise, if I wasn’t so aware of the past day’s boredom. I think this is the core of why being in tune with yourself is beneficial. It allows you to adjust yourself more rapidly to fix your problems. Ignoring your emotions might make you not change your situation to a better one simply because you’re not aware of it. In addition, I’m becoming more aware of the effect the environment has on me. Looking at it another way, this list of emotions is sort of a snapshot of the environment’s I’ve been in through my eyes. The world, with a little bit of Arul slapped onto it. I mean, this is me. Technically, to get unnecessarily abstract, this is how I’ve existed for the past week. This was me for the past week as I interacted with the world. Which is sort of pretty to think about, but the thing is, everyone watching, everyone living has this going on inside of them, and this is the bare minimum of what’s going on. This is updated every 10 mins, but , every second, every millisecond, my brain puts out new reactions, new feelings, in response to the world I’m experiencing at that moment. There’s a hidden richness of life within myself and everyone else that becomes available when one acts with cognizance towards their emotional states.

Cont'd-Emotional state of people today

How are you today? I have a problem with that question. You see, when I’m asked that, I pause, and I think about how my day has gone, and try to give an overall mood qualifier, “I’m happy, sad, excited, utterly terrified”, or whatever, along with a little reason why I am that way at that moment. Apparently, that’s a terrifying way to respond because apparently NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR HOW YOU ARE BUT THEY ASK ANYWAY! But a couple days ago, something happened that made me think a little more about my issue with the question. One of the people I work with has recently moved to the United States, and speaks English as a second language. She had her textbook with her, and I flipped through it wondering how English is taught to those who are learning. I found a page that discussed the question “How are you?”. It explicitly stated that one should never actually tell the asker how they are feeling, and that doing so was a great faux pas, and it said this was the case, especially in America, and that one should answer “Fine”, or “Good, thank you.”

What’s the problem here? It’s an issue in the way we think about our lives. It’s part of our culture to ignore how we feel, number one, and secondly, if we do inquire into the nature of how we are feeling, being anything other than “Good” or “Fine”, is an actual wrong answer to the question “How are you?”. You see, I think as people, probably worldwide, but especially in America, people are being pushed to forget their inner workings and encouraged to present themselves as a cohesive object. With no loose ends and no aberrations. This is a problem, seeing that, well first off, we’re not. I mean, just talking about myself, I’m not. I have organs doing their thing inside me, there’s my heart pumping, my stomach churning, my muscles contracting, and my spleen doing whatever it does. And finally, my brain! My brain is doing things and it’s not just a robot with preprogrammed responses. As much as I’d like it to, or no matter how effective I’d be if I didn’t, my brain is not a seamless computing machine. It’s weird. And definitely not always “fine”. You know, I think I’d be “fine” more often if every time I was asked “how are you” I was actually allowed to process how I actually felt instead of it just being a time to check and make sure no actual emotions were bubbling to my surface. Speaking of which, let’s check how depressed the world it. (insert map of depression here)

Oh, Of course. America is by far the most depressed country in the world. In terms of “days lost” to a certain affliction, Americans lose the most to depression of all the countries in the world. In fact, apparently over the course of one’s life American’s lose over 1400 days of life to dealing with and held down by depression. And that’s just one such mental disease.

Solution to this issue. It’s hard. But we might be able to solve it by starting a change within ourselves. We have an inside world. And that means we don’t have to follow the outside world. We have a place that is ours, that we can look at, observe, and care for. Do it. Be aware of what you’re thinking, be aware of how you’re feeling, because you’re worth it.

What the hell, Brain? Video Podcast Proposal

VIDEO TITLE (working title):

What the Hell, Brain?

THEME/CONCEPT:

Mental disease’s under-representation in society.

GENRE:

Nonfiction/Science

SYNOPSIS/FREE-WRITE: 500 words or less.

Someone gets the flu. Immediately, they are allowed to resign from society. People close to them being washing hands, making the sick person is fed, and allowed to recuperate in their own time. Schoolwork is adjusted, maybe work gives them trouble, but arguing with a 105 fever is difficult. The person gets better, and then the period is talked about. Except maybe for the off reference “Remember that time you got delirious and started rambling about Kung Fu Panda with a 105 fever?” But the person recovers and then is rapidly able to reintroduce themselves into society.

(Sick Role – sociological construct that defines the ill’s role in society)

But now let’s head to a person with Depression. They have no external symptoms. They have no temperature, no change in pallor, no congestion. But they live a life that is torturous to themselves. Unfortunately, they aren’t afforded the same leeway as someone with the flu would be. Of course, depressive episodes can last far longer than the flu can, and maybe it’s just unfeasible to move work and responsibilities away that far. But this depressed person can’t actually function. Because they aren’t just “sad”, the way their mind works has changed, either due to genetic tendency or external effects. They work differently now, and that needs to readjusted to normal levels, before they can act as a regular member of society.

Mental Disease is highly prevalent issue in today’s society. Yet there isn’t much of an effort to get people really understand what goes on in such disesase. Mental disease is peculiar, seeing as we are our minds. We rarely ever see what is, instead seeing what our brains regard at salient. The world we see is unique and ours is a patchwork quilt stitched up by the various parts of our brain working in tandem. This is all well and good until you reach a point where it goes wrong.

                Goes wrong? Okay. Just fix it. But if the entity generating your very reality “goes wrong”, what do you do? First of all, if it’s generating your reality, how do you know something’s wrong? How do you know if it’s internal or external? Second, how can you possible get anyone else to understand? Your reality was already unique. Now it’s abnormal and unique. How can anyone relate? It’s a struggle that that many struggle to fix.         

                There are many issues with how society deals with these very prevalent issues. In a lot of these afflictions, they impair the person’s ability to summon motivation, physically altering the neural pathways that would give the person drive to complete a task. Today, this would be looked at as “lazy”, or someone “not applying themselves”. This is simply not true. Saying that is like trying to make a car with no gas start by hitting the pedal harder. This just doesn’t work.

                This creates a stigma against discussing mental issues.

VIDEO STYLE (what does it look like? What other examples are similar? What is your style?):

Radiolab on NPR.

It’s very interview-y, with a focus on suspenseful story telling to convey scientific ideas.

BREAKDOWN OF POSSIBLE SCENES:

Don’t know what mental illness I’m going to focus on, interested in Depression and PTSD.

·          A couple of statistics (not too many) to quantify the numbers involved

·         Maybe an explanation of how some of these disorders work.

·         Descriptions about how the modern world is really not equipped to deal with it.

·         A suggestion that maybe the way the world works right now is to blame for the increase in numbers.

·         Things to do in the short term to help oneself or those close to you

·         Societal refocusing that maybe could create a better environment for our minds as humans.

TARGET AUDIENCE (who are you making the video for):

Those afflicted, those close to those afflicted. Info for the general public

LENGTH OF VIDEO:

5-10 minutes.

OBJECTIVES:

Get people educated and aware about the matter.

Find sources of issues within society that make mental issues prevalent.

See how mental illness would affect a persons place in the world.

               

SETTING(S):

My room. Maybe clips of people online? School.

Kisses

I have a secret. I haven’t told anyone about this. Which is weird, because thinking on it, it makes for a pretty good story. The secret, is that I don’t know the name of my first kiss. For some reason this fact has bothered me. I literally haven’t told anyone. Everything led me to believe that it was some magical moment that you’d hold dear for the rest of your life. And I’d never found out who I’d shared the moment with. It was middle school, a time of faux responsibilities, raging hormones, and academic mediocrity. The highlight of middle school were definitely the dances. At dances, kids played at being adults and teens. In addition the blaring dance music with beats that shook the gym and the crowd of people created a cathartic environment full of abandon that was matched by little else in the school year.

It was at one such dance, where I kissed someone for the first time. After breaking out moves for that would make Michael Jackson jealous(I’m kidding, I couldn’t, and still can’t, dance), I found myself still standing near a girl that I had spent most of the dance talking to. In a poor attempt to cover up an awkward silence, I came out with the fated lines.

“Let’s kiss,” I suggested.

“Okay,” she replied.

She started to lean in, and I felt my brain go into overdrive. I thought things like,

“That actually worked?”

“Wait, won’t our noses hit?”

“What shape should my mouth be in?”

I didn’t really think it this far through, of the consequences if she said yes to my request, because I assumed she would say no. In fact, my question was more of a joke. Nevertheless, unexpected or not, she had agreed and so I committed to it. I wanted my first kiss to be at least sorta decent.

Our lips met, and the rapid fire thoughts continued. (Our noses didn’t hit)

“Her lips are rough”

“Are mine rough?”

“Her hands are on my neck. Where do my hands go?”

“How long will this last?”

“Can I leave now? Or is that rude?”

“I smell strawberries,”

I became somewhat aware of my surroundings. I saw a classmate walk by with a surprised look on his face. He smiled and gave me two thumbs up. I focused back on her face.

“Her eyes are closed, why?”

“Should I close my eyes?”

She pulled away

“That was nice,” she said.

Dazed, I responded with a “Uh huh,”

She gave me a weird look.

We avoided each other for the rest of the dance.

But I thought the kiss was nice.

She was my first, and I was her’s, so it will always be a special moment. But it clearly wasn’t too special, because today, 6 years later, I don’t remember her name, only a vague recollection of what she looked like.

            I do remember, thinking afterwards at home, how I, or anyone could even think about kissing in a positive, let alone romantic light. I mean, it’s kinda disgusting, you put your mouth on someone else, then sometimes, put your tongue in their mouth, and your saliva mixes with their saliva. Bleh. What if they had a cold? It’s all horribly unsanitary. You don’t see animals doing it. Even they seem to understand that other mouths should not be near or on top of their own. There are some scientific papers that try to explain the existence of kissing. They claim that kissing is a way for two people to use taste and smell to carry out a quick biological compatibility test on a potential partner. I guess it’s not something that should be analyzed as such.

Kissing is weird, but it’s human. And that’s beautiful. I guess. I mean. I’ll keep doing it. But, still’s weird.

Pretty Pictures

Pretty Pictures

Click. There. A snapshot. A snapshot of my life, of our lives-- a moment. It is my firm belief that life leads up to moments, scenes that your mind’s camera takes pictures of. And it’s within the moment that the most satisfaction and pleasure can be derived. When you ask most people what they envision their future to be, they’ll tell you a story. They’ll tell you they hope to probably meet someone they love, settle down, get a nice house, a job they enjoy, and on. Or they might tell you how they want to travel the world, never settle down, and just be whisked away in the absolute whirlwind that life on this planet is. There are more, but you get the picture. But me, I live for moments. Yeah, having a good story is important, but all the stories in people’s worth telling lead up to moments, picturesque moments. I mean, if you’re remembering a scene from your life, you’re doing just that. If you think about it, you’re not reliving the whole story, you’re remembering yourself and everything related to the story in a specific moment. For example, even when you’re trying to remember where you kept your keys, you’re not remembering the locations that you passed through as you went through them that day; your mind’s eye blinks between rooms that you were in, individual instances of your day, that have associations and qualities that you parse to figure out where you left your keys.

So. I’m obsessed with the moments in my life. I try to curate them to fit the platonic ideal for that situation. Sometimes, I use my own judgement, other times, I look to pop culture for tropes and things to model on. I especially like the idea of the three friends, one proper, one wild, and the other, (me), in the middle. As such, my closest friends now are Sophia, the proper one, and Clarissa, the wild one. I’m still a little bit iffy about Sofia. She doesn’t fill the role as well as Emilia did. She just doesn’t care enough about how she’s dressed. I don’t just come up with my own definitions of a pretty image. Emilia, from her name all the way to how she used a knife and fork while she ate a donut, fit the image of the prim, innocent, beauty she was supposed to be. But then Clarissa and I took her to a party, and she took way too kindly to the beer that was at the party. We had to take her home. It simply wouldn’t do for her to act like that, so I found Sophia. Sophia does not drink. She has a personality that’s a bit rougher around the edges, but she is very anti-drug. She’ll do. This all sounds a bit odd, I know, but this is to please myself, not the world. I feel that most psychologists will tell me will tell me this sort of obsession will lead to various anxiety disorders. But I’m okay with that, if it does happen. And it hasn’t yet. Or maybe it has. And I’ve just not noticed. But things are prettier this way. If every moment my mind’s eye flicks towards is pleasing to me, I’ll be happy, right? I should live it the way I want. I’m not insecure or anxious, I’m just trying to live a life I’d look back on with joy. Speaking of joy, yesterday was a big moment.

Yesterday was important. Yesterday, he kissed me. My love. He kissed me. I’d planned how it would go down for days. I looked up how to cue a guy to kiss me, (ehow is wonderful), and made sure to only give those signs when we were under the trellis in the garden of the local park. But he messed it up. He kissed me, but he kissed me wrong. He used way too much tongue (I’m a lady! Not a common whore! It’s too soon for so much lingual involvement.), held me wrong, and didn’t kiss me when the sun was setting, he kissed me after. I don’t know what to do. He’s perfect, but he’s ruined such a key moment of our lives together. Is it even worth it to continue? When it’s been so irreparably tainted? I threw myself onto my bed in my room, beating my pillow. “That’s the way-- It should have begun! But it’s hopeless!” I pause, I realize I could have really sold the throwing of my body better.

I get up, I throw myself on my bed again. This time, my comforter buys my performance and gets thrown up by the impact, and covers a bit of my head, as if to wipe my tears. I’ll admit, I’m a bit smug about that. That was a really good throw.

                He’s a bit cute. Even withstanding his obscene corruption of the kiss, I decide I should go see him. I drag myself into my car and get to the school field where he runs track. I stand at the edge of the field, and yell, “HEY! OVER HERE! I WANT TO TALK TO YOU!”. He doesn’t even look up. I walk back to my car, and get up on it. I yell a bit more, worrying that I may be overdoing this. Oh well. I needed a moment of public humiliation anyway. He turns after as I feel myself start getting hoarse. He looks a bit confused, and runs over.

                “What’s up? Why’re you yelling? I only recognized you once I get closer, you sound different when you’re yelling.”, he says, breathing heavily.

                “I wanted to talk to you, why didn’t you come the first time I called?”, I ask.

                “I told you I didn’t know it was you. Why didn’t you yell my name?”, he asks, and straightens up and looks at me.

….I have a confession to make. I really, really really, really don’t like his name. It bothers me, and it makes me feel shallow, which is definitely not pretty. But I just can’t like it. I hate names with H’s or g’s in them. Just ugly letters. As I’m thinking this, I take a step back, away from him, away from the offending question. And I sort of fall of the car I never stepped down from.

                Well, not sort of. I fall. I scream and flail my arms to no avail. I’m mortified, standing and yelling on a car one thing; falling off the car is way too much public humiliation. I have vague thoughts about the possibility of my dying, but really there is no way to make this situation better. But all of a sudden, he’s there. He’s there around me, and I’m not dead, which may be better at this point, but I realize he’s caught me. In that moment I realize a couple things. Being saved is definitely pretty. I see why princesses let themselves get locked up in grimy towers with dragons. It’s for this.

He looks absolutely celestial as he gazes into my face, I realize I definitely love him, and that maybe having a dopey boyfriend who doesn’t understand what pretty means actually fits with an image that I can get behind. Especially if he keeps this saving thing up. And besides, falling too fast has its own sort of glamor. He’s worth it. Other than this, he’s kind, he’s respectful to those who deserve it, my friends are jealous of him, and he loves me. I’m lucky to have him. And I’ll admit, I’m a quirky girl with a bit of an obsession that gets me into tight spots. It’s nice to have someone unaware to watch out in case I go too far. Romeo and Juliet probably didn’t think too hard about what they were getting themselves into. I won’t either. I do a little half swoon while still in his arms,

                “Oh my god, Harry, you caught me.”

                “Huh, I guess you do know my name. I was getting worried”, he smirks

                “Of course I know your name, actually I quite like your name”, I breathe.

                “You’re an idiot. Don’t fall off cars.” He kisses my forehead, shakes his head and runs back to his teammates.

He was perfect. I watched him practice, still a bit dazed.

I was sure about this, though. We’d work out. We are in love. And damn, are we pretty.

Dead Rabbit.

The humble rabbit.

When you were about 11, you sprinted outside around the vegetable garden that your friends mother grew in her backyard. You’re eagerly waiting for your friend to come play, and you have a frisbee in your hand that you plan to bean at his head when he comes out. You’ve been practicing, and you’ve figured out the secret to great aim. His frisbee is a bit different than the one at your house, sometimes it wobbles, but your technique is perfect. You’ll get him. He still isn’t out yet. You wonder what's taking so long. You start to walk towards the back kitchen door. As you round the corner you see that he's outside, but crouched under a bush. He looks sort of dumb and awkward. As he always does. His butt is in the air, and for a second you take careful aim at his backside with the frisbee. The idea is enticing, but something about how he’s poking at the ground draws your attention. You two are so close you have changes of clothes in each others houses. You both like his house better. You’re not ashamed of it, but your house has way fewer video games. Your parents are a lot more strict. But he’s always let you play on his toys as long as you’ve liked. And he likes the same subjects you do. Math, and science. You two have been class nerds of equal caliber for as long as you can remember. But you’re sure you’re still cooler. You don’t tuck your shirt into your pants, or your pants into your socks, and you don’t have glasses (yet). 

Imagine this with pants tucked into socks.

Your relationship with him is the same protective bully you are with your younger brother. You’ll chuck the frisbee at him any day. But everyone else better back off. He’s your victim. He takes it in good humor, so you guess it’s okay. Today you wonder how his mother ever let you near her child, or why he enjoyed your company at all. But you are a physical child, and you show your adoration through punches and thrown rocks. He didn’t complain too much. The makings of a best friend.

But your attention turns to the point of his focus, and you see an animal on the red mulch under the bush. He turns, sees you behind him and waves you over. “There’s a dead rabbit”. A dead rabbit? This is your realm. A dead body. Time to cut it open and see what’s inside. You bend down, grab a stick, and crack it into two, imagining the jagged edge can be used as a scalpel.

                “What are you doing with that stick? I think we should bury it.”.

“Bury it?” Why would you bury it? You want to look inside. He continues, “I think we should send it on its way into the afterlife. Poor rabbit.”. Being a 10 year old, you roll your eyes at his rather precocious talk. You understand his words, but not the sentiment. You just want to cut it open. It’s a dead rabbit. You can name all its internal organs. You wonder what a spleen looks like. 

Literally no one know what it does.

You push him to the side, bend down and poke the rabbit. He screams. You back off, he only contradicts you for a good reason. “We should bury it.”. He’s crying. You’re uneasy now. He’s too moved by this. It’s a dead rabbit. Nothing more, nothing less. May as well look inside. You’re sure you can get your way, but something about his tone gives you pause. You agree to bury it. “We should give it an egg. Two eggs. So it can eat on its way to rabbit heaven. You run into the kitchen, and come out, egg in hand. And start towards the rabbit. He looks on with abject horror, “No, rabbits are vegetarian, why would you give it an egg?”. 

Vegetarians eat egg....

You don’t know the answer to this. You just wanted to crack an egg on the rabbit body. See what it did to the fur. Also, cracking an egg is satisfying. He remains adamant. “I think we should write it a poem.” This goes too far. He wants to make a rabbit burial into an educational activity? Poems are written in school. You can’t stab it and you have to write a poem? You throw the egg onto the rabbit, it cracks on impact, and oozes into the fur. “Aruuuuuuuuul, come on. You ruined the rabbit. Now it’ll be forced to give up its vegetarianism on its way to heaven.” You’re satisfied, you got the egg on the rabbit. He shakes his head and starts to wax eloquent, composing a poem on the spot. You don’t listen. It’s probably dumb anyway.

Intro to Me.

Hi friends! This post’s goal is to introduce myself. This also, I’ll admit, is a class assignment that I’m writing this to complete. This was submitted late. I guess that tells you a lot about me. I mean, it seems to peg me in a hole till you check the email the professor sent us and realize that it’s not as distinctive as initially assumed, seeing as the Professor’s email update yesterday told us half of us hadn’t submitted it by the due date. I see you, and I call to you, kindred spirits! Still, the idea remains that it narrows the field. I am, in fact, as the day I sent this in suggests, absentminded and disorganized.

Caught.-age 7 approx.

Ouch. 8 sentences into “be honest, be brave, and be willing to expose yourself”, and it already hurts. Thankfully, it’s not all bad. So let’s dig further, and figure out exactly who I am. My name is Arul, which sorta sounds like “I rule”, which all my friends point out (it might actually be a requirement to be my friend), and I definitely enjoy.

Literally 2 seconds later.

They told me people died standing there.

Yes, I’m a bit disorganized and cluttered in how I choose to go about my day, but within my head, I make up for it by keeping things neat and tidy. I’ll show you what I mean. I like to keep things in boxes, label them, and put them in easily accessible places for later. So when I was asked to introduce myself, I immediately went to the box that kept all the things relating to introducing myself to other people, and found it completely empty. Oh. I hate introducing myself to people. That didn’t work. But…. we do have a box of questions I ask people when they introduce themselves, such as “What kind of music do you listen to?” or “Do you read books?”. After that, all that's left to do is to transition into the conversation the questions spark.

It would make sense, then, if I answered these questions about myself to elucidate a workable image of myself. What kind of music do I listen to? All kinds, except metal. Really it varies, but generally it centers around various indie bands, currently very involved in 50's-70's country, and modern-day bluegrass with a splash of the 80's because the 80's were happiness and it was in the movie Guardians of the Galaxy. Am I ashamed of the any of my music phases? Maybe my "strictly classical music", from 7th grade. Here are a couple youtube links to songs I'm currently listening to.

Dearly Departed by Shakey Graves, ft. Esme Patterson

The Devil Wears a Suit and Tie by Colter Wall

The Chain by Fleetwood Mac

A friend and I after a school concert. The roses were for my music teacher. -age 10

Do I read books? Boy. What a question. Of course I read books. I am a reading addict. I read literally anything, books, magazines, board game instructions, Shoprite Coupon small print, etc. It’s bad. My parents used to force me to play with friends, and take away my library books when I misbehaved. Either that, or they’d refuse to take me to the library so I couldn’t get more. I’ve missed assignments because I was reading a book I couldn’t put down. When sitting at a dinner table at a new person’s house, I generally feel the urge to go through all the condiments they decide to place on the table and read through the ingredients list. I rarely remember what the label said as to exactly where in the Himalayas their salt was sourced from, but I still find myself reading it. I’ll read it every time I sit down at that table. I don’t forget all of it though, like my favorite quote from To Kill a Mockingbird, when Atticus Finch is describing the cranky, old, recently deceased Mrs. Dubose. “She died beholden to nothing and nobody.”, he says. I think that’s a beautiful quote. A dying wish to have all the ends tied. To make her life the final end that needed to be tied within her story without any intervening influences from elsewhere. What’s more, she accomplished her goal. 

 It’s unfortunate, seeing that as I get older, it’s harder to get into the flow of reading as fast, where you’re entirely absorbed within the tale, right there with the characters. It's one of my primary fears, losing my ability to enjoy reading as I do and did.

I think it’s worth answering one question that doesn’t seem so overtly “small talk-esque”, as the last two were. I’m of the opinion that there’s no such thing as small talk, and that all questions have the potential to be the topics of an enriching conversation, but I think, “You can tell the entire world one thing. What is it?”

He's been sitting in my bathroom for 12 years.

Also in my bathroom. Didn't realize my bathroom is winter themed.

I think my answer would be to tell everyone to find a person and look them in the eyes. I think that’s all I’d bother saying. Anything longer and I think most people wouldn’t do it. This seems to be a good idea because it emphasizes the existence of another human. It reminds those who’d do it of something important. That there are other humans out here, and they aren’t the only ones around. And eye contact itself is rather powerful. As a neuroscience major, I’m keenly aware of all the heavy-duty machinery your brain has to track, recognize, recognize, and process gaze. A study noted that staring into another’s eyes for just a minute could induce an altered state of being that involved hallucinating strange faces like deceased family members and those of animals. Another possibly less scientific study made men and women stare into each other’s eyes and realized that often in the months after the study the participants were getting married. I.e. there might be stuff happening in that lump of flesh in your head when you look at a person. Maybe you’re supposed to be staring at eyes instead of your phone. But I’d only tell the world to do it for an instant. I think that just the reminder that they are a human, with other humans, on this planet would do us as a species some good. I think that, with this short glance at someone's eyes, instead of falling in love with the person they chose to look into, maybe they fall in love with all of us. They might fall in love with the idea that we’re a species of 7 billion on a planet who all aren’t that different and have wants that everyone wants and needs that everyone needs.

It’s the sort of idea that humans require if we plan on continue as a species. We’re facing issues that can’t be solved by one person, or even a generation of people. Issues like global warming and inequalities in the way resources are distributed in the world will probably take a multigenerational concerted effort to solve. I think that by using such an opportunity, like being able to speak one thing to the whole world to encourage this sort of thought, I allay that tiny spark of existential dread that we all hold in us to a certain degree. I mean, what else would I use it for? Taco Bell?

I'm on the Rutgers Sailing Team! You all should join.

Sorry it was late!

This smile has got me out of a lot of trouble, gonna keep milking it.