posted on Apr, 5 2013 @ 12:30 PM
I don't want to know the doublessly dramatic and fecklessly mysterious contents of your freakin' dream. Or your neighbor's dream. Or that your
dog appeared to be having a bad dream. Mainly, because it was a dream.
I don't want to hear about your clever addition and subtraction skills prognosticating the Pope will fall or that the sky is about to rain goats.
For as complicated as telling the future could be, it never involves higher math, which I find very confusing. Telling the future, if it involves
numbers, should involve a few square roots, at least one cosin, and if it means anything at all, pi. But somehow, divining the mysteries of life
simply requires math I was teaching when only seven years old.
I don't want to hear about the remnants of the Couric effect and how that felt to you.
I don't want to hear your stories of childbirth. At. All.
And I don't want to hear that story that you and your brain argued over whether to tell me about it or not. That was your gut trying to tell your
ego that I didn't want to know. Listen to your gut.