Sophisticated Taste

I decided to have a someone over for dinner, perhaps to get on the good graces of my dear family. We all engaged in delightful conversation, from topics of politics to basic insignificant banter. After dinner was over, my father decided to pour himself a glass of tangerine-flavored seltzer water.

Personally, I have never liked the taste of carbonated water. So when my father offered me some, I decided to express my profound dislike for the beverage.

"That stuff is gross," I said.

"That's because you're not sophisticated enough to enjoy it," my father replied. I felt the conversation had at that moment reached its ultimate maximum point of nonsense.

"Dad, isn't that stuff 99 cents a bottle?" I asked.

He paused for a moment.

"Well, it's actually two for a dollar," he recalled.

In an attempt to completely trivialize the statement he made earlier about seltzer being sophisticated, I drew on a reference from contemporary culture.

"Also dad, don't clowns spray each other with that stuff?"

The Negative Impact of Internet Familiarity

As it has been my recent custom to do, I've been spending most of my time at work for the purposes of making enough change to do some laundry. While folding napkins, there was some commotion at one of the cooking tables.

Interested in what was going on (because I had been folding napkins for the last 2 hours), I turned to listen as one customer frantically tried to explain what was going on.

Apparently, someone's 14-year-old grand daughter had thrown up all over the cooking table. I couldn't imagine why, but the funny part was how it was explained;

"She's vomiting!" exclaimed the frantic grandmother.
"And she needs a CUP to rinse her mouth out."

I listened further to the conversation.

"Just a cup, that's it. Just one cup, so she can get the taste of vomit out."

I was trying to no avail to conceal my laughter by this point. The way it was phrased, I couldn't help but be reminded of a certain internet reference.

Clearly, she wasn't.

A Failure at Conning A Fake Intership

When I was out of the house one day, my father told me upon my return that I had missed a call from a company called "Dial America" or something similar. I assumed, as it was the peak of my job hunt, that it was one of the 36 companies I had applied to calling me back to offer me a job.

Not realizing how wrong this assumption was, I called the company back at the phone number contained within my caller ID.

I was still desperate at this point for a career in writing or journalism of some kind (who am I kidding, I still am). So I waited until the next day to dial the number, assured that I was going to be able to set up some kind of an interview.

After leaving a confident voicemail about how excited I was to have been asked about partaking in an editorial internship position, I hung up and waited for a reply.

By this point, my doubts had nestled into my psyche. I had no idea what this company did, nevermind the notion that I could have ever applied there.

So my phone rang at about 8:30 the next morning. Being tired, groggy, and haven't had used my vocal chords since the previous evening, I sounded worse then the train wreck I looked like when I said;

"Hellllllo?"

"Hello, is this Devon?" The official-sounding caller replied.

After confirming my identity, the caller proceeded to try and rectify the scenario;

"I'm not sure we have any sort of internship program here at Dial America, so I don't really know what you were calling about," she said in a cheery tone.

"Well, I was fairly certain I applied at your company," I stated, knowing full well by now that I hadn't.

"I'm not saying that you haven't, but I have no idea why you would have applied to a position we don't offer," she retorted.

"I see," I said, clearly out of options.

"If we were to offer you a position in the future, don't hesitate to call us back. But as of right now, I have no idea what you were talking about," she finished.

I assumed that if I couldn't even persuade someone that I applied to their company, then I couldn't furthermore assume that they had an inkling about who I was. Realizing by this point that they were the third party concerned with selling me a video gaming magazine subscription, I decided to double back and cover my tracks. Essentially, to explain why it was that I had done something so completely asinine.

"I suppose what happened was that in my job search, I had called the wrong number in my caller ID. I appreciate the fact that we were able to figure this whole thing out," I said.

"Ah, I see what you mean. Perhaps you should try the next number in your caller ID, maybe they have that internship position you were looking for," she said.

A long pause ensued, and silence filled the void. I decided to change the mood.

"So....can I get a free subscription to my magazine?"

Another Time Travel Anomaly

While searching through my phone's computer-sync database, I found a peculiar backup file. Despite the fact that I had no idea why or how it could have appeared there, I found a sub-folder called "SHERMAN," written exactly as such.

Sherman, whom you may remember from previous installments, was a friend of mine who assisted me most in shedding light on the possibilities of time travel in my own vivid bildungsroman. He researched the dates and times that my phone chose to display, giving me the insight I needed to continue my pursuit of knowledge within the parameters of the future.

Now, my phone had seemingly singled him out.

Seeing the directory made me wonder what it was that he may or may not have told me. Perhaps his words were in some way relevant to the way history would play out; perhaps it was again just an awkward coincidence. At this point, the latter seemed terrifically unlikely.

Within this directory, I found no concrete files. The filename was this;
C:\Documents and Settings\Owner.YOUR-34EFF17BD0\My Documents\Phone Backup\SHERMAN

I know 100% that I sure as hell hadn't created it. I wouldn't even have known how.

Even though there were no concrete files within the four subdirectories (entitled 'DCIM,' 'music,' 'picture,' and 'video'), I was convinced that the directory had some kind of purpose.

But what that purpose was, I was completely unsure of. I hoped it was nothing disastrous.

Eudaimonia

Semi-recently, I've familiarized myself with Plato's principles of Eudaimonia. Eudaimonia is, in a nutshell, the happiest point a person can attain, only possible through the fulfillment of his or her own potential. This can mean a few fundamental things;

I am not currently the happiest I can be. Is this because I am only on my personal journey, supposed to reach Eudaimonical enlightenment by the end of my life, or is it that I'm only happy in the short term satisfaction of my immediate goals. If the latter, my goals are in fact such;

-Get drunk frequently
-Play pool
-Spend time reminiscing with good friends

This makes me wonder heavily.

Am I or am I not fulfilling my potential?
I've always wanted to be a professional actor, but will the fulfillment of that specific goal make me Eudaimonically happy? I don't quite think so. I rather believe that writing and the recognition and discrepancies of those works will make me somehow travel towards my personal Eudaimonia. Things like those I say above as well as buying a new power supply and more ram for my computer would only enable the accomplishment of smaller steps towards that end.

Indeed, I hope they will.

Pie for the Dog

I was sitting right here in this very spot last night, blogging to my heart's content while buzzed on cheap Mexican beer. Truman the dog, with whose care I am charged while my sister is out of town on business, was sitting next to me. I went to the refrigerator to grab some apple pie that my dad made earlier in the evening, and brought it back with me.
Truman the dog was very curious what it was that I was eating, and although he wasn't pushy or thieving about it, he made it clear to me that he wanted to try it as well. It made me start thinking about a few things.

Normally, I don't enjoy it when people eat in front of me, it's just something that I've never particularly enjoyed. It's not so much an acknowledgment of politeness, but rather that I see eating as a communal activity that I really enjoy participating in. I suspected Truman felt the same way.

I also can't help but wonder, however irrationally, if animals that we sometimes keep as pets were actually something else in a past life. For all I knew, Truman was an upstanding fellow of good character who happened to love the taste of apple pie.

Between both of these thoughts, I felt mildly guilty about eating some apple pie in front of Truman, especially with him sitting there and showing the best restraint possible for a well-behaved canine. So I gave him a couple bites. I felt it was the right thing to do.

A Large Salad

Instead of publishing the final chapter, I think instead I might have to post this link to better monitor the possible outcome of the Hadron Collider's insidious motives;

Has the Large Hadron Collider destroyed the world yet?

Since all I can do is wait, I think I will tell another true story for an eager audience.

I used to work at Wendy's. It was an interesting high school job, teaching me much about the world (and much about the assholes who live in it). I remember running the front counter one day, a seventeen-year-old me staring longingly into the far window.

Interrupting my gaze into the afternoon sunlight soon enough was an older woman, possibly in her forties or fifties. Clutching her purse tightly, she proceeded to timidly ask me if she could have a salad from our bountiful garden selection.

Without pausing, she then put out her palm in a stopping gesture, and said, "but I can't have carrots on it. For medical reasons, I can't eat root vegetables."

Not wasting any time myself, I then recited the names of the salads without carrots on them, subsequently pointing out their identifying photographs on the menu board behind me.

"Wait, does the Mandarin Chicken Salad have nuts or cucumbers on it?" she asked, more confidently than before.

"Unfortunately, it comes with a few nuts, and a handful of tart citrus reservoirs," I replied, as tactfully as possible.

"I can't have that then," she said, a frustrated grimace striking at me from her face.

I responded by trying to offer her a bare-bones salad, saying more or less that I could go into the back room and throw a bunch of lettuce into a plastic container for her eating pleasure.

"That would be great," she replied, enticing a relieved smile from me.

"Except..."

My smile spun around instantly.

"...I can't have any salads with any white lettuce," she finished. As soon as those words left her lips, I found myself boiling inside. At the time, I felt it was a complete waste of my time for her to go and ask for a dish that God himself would have struggled with. I still think that today, five years later.

I stared the woman right in the eye and extended this heart-felt question.

"Ma'am, if you can't eat carrots, cucumbers, or even lettuce, then why are you challenging my intellect by trying to order a salad? We've got a whole selection of food items that don't contain any of those things. They're called cheeseburgers. If you REALLY want to be safe, I'll pour you a cup of chili. I made sure there was no lettuce in it at 7:30 this morning."

She stared at me, just as shocked at my audacity as I was at her stupidity.

Needless to say, I got a nice word from my boss. It was worth every second.