In my nightmares Stephen Hawking is chasing me down a dim, endless hallway lit periodically by florescent light fixtures that flicker and buzz, the pitch rising and falling with Doppler as I race below, sweating and panting. The walls are infinite chalkboards covered with arcane scribblings of advanced math. I'm running as fast as I can, but his wheelchair, which must have been souped-up for performance, is gaining on me. "Wait, Scott," he's calling out in his dispassionate robot voice. "I want to show you something. It all makes sense now."
I've been feeling a little crazy lately, what with the nightmares, so I decided to start seeing getting psychotherapy. I couldn't afford a professional psychotherapist, so I've been seeing the wooden turtle that lives on my windowsill at work. This is one of the advantages of being crazy, all of the additional opportunities not available to sane people.
"We wooden turtles have a saying," she said to me. "'Survival of the fittest never changes, but approaches to fitness are constantly created and destroyed.'"
Staring blankly out the window I started to reply, "It's not a very catchy say..."
"No, but I think it's apt," she interrupted, annoyed. "I think you are offended by what you perceive to be a violation of natural selection."
"It's not even pithy," I said. "I don't even think I'd call it a 'saying' per se."
In my nightmares there is a small wooden turtle riding on Dr. Hawking's knee. "I'll show you pithy!" she screams.
Hello, friends. How are you?
Later. Love.
