Wednesday, July 22, 2009


I looked up from the book wondering what I had just read. An intimidating paragraph about a supposedly important thinker called Wittgenstein; he wrote some books and was a class-mate of Hitler’s or something. It didn’t matter anyway, the assignment wasn’t due in for another week and my fluid prose and superlative essay technique would get me an A even if I had nothing of great import to write.

My concentration was broken momentarily as the tranquil segues of one Godspeed you! track into another were interrupted by the initial assault of Genghis Tron. I’d forgotten I was plugged in to my brand new technologically friendly aural transference device. Somewhat stunned, my gaze had drifted from the page only to gravitate (thanks Newton) towards the celestial bodies before me. Their exteriors glistened in the dull library’s select committee-approved lighting, only to be engulfed in fleshy, horizontally oriented curtains.

She blinked. I blinked. She smiled. I turned away. Attractive girls don’t dig philosophy majors. They want men who can bench press one-twenty and build a house. Well, design one anyway. Or at least tell you how it’s meant to stand up (this is why engineers aren’t as attractive as they might at first seem: they only appear to be able to do these things). I suppressed the thought and glanced at the clock, or at least would have had my roving eyes not strayed again. Several milliseconds too late I realised the pull of two larger objects had lured the gaze of my telescope. More embarrassed to have caught myself than to have been caught by another I flung myself back into Philosophical Investigations.

Attractive girls don’t appreciate staring. But why do they clothe themselves in such a way to encourage it? Maybe, under their disapproving moral scowl, they like the attention. I don’t think such issues are meant to be understood by mortal men. Or, at least, not by philosophers anyway. All of the best thinkers died alone, were gay, or at least suspect. Perhaps my heterosexuality explains my inability to produce striking original thought. Well, at least I can argue cogently, if not interestingly. Yet, maybe this explains my attraction to but successive failures with women: I am a philosopher at heart, but an engineer at loin.

The girl opposite coughed as she slid a thick book surreptitiously across the table between us. A paper tongue hung out of the pages of Foundations of Structural Engineering: A Beginner’s Guide. In handwriting that must have been an early prototype of Comic Sans was written “Your (sic) cute lol I think youd (sic) lyk (sic) my friend Preston lol”. Indignantly, I slammed my tome shut and left in what I consider to be my best “I’m a man’s man (but not that kind of man’s man)” walk.

Seriously, FML.


  1. Lol! Is there some kind of autism going on there?

  2. I hope not. I don't know how I'd react to finding out that I'm autistic.
    Though I'm not so concerned about the girl.

  3. Dude you are tots doing it wrong. This guy will tell you all bout chch womyns. "the women in Christchurch are also more mature, with less issues, and more fun to be around" he even has NEW ACRONYMS to describe the particular brand of chchwomyns "R.F.H. - Relaxed Feminine Hippiness". File this under your 'for chch, by chch' blogtags. You can thank me later.