I'm Sticky

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Look Out

This planet is disgusting. Everywhere you look there is something great that is getting more and more destroyed just because it got in the way.

Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we allow everything that is perfect to crumble down around us? Are humans inherently addicted to depression? Every species has a purpose, a reason for existing. A niche. What is our purpose?

Let’s look at what the human race does.

1. We make trash. Everything we touch turns to waste. We’re like garbage-Midas.
2. We make babies. This world has been overrun with our spawn, so much so that we can’t even move an inch for fear of trampling an infant.
3. We complain. We looovvee to complain. Discontent is the height of all human emotions.

What else? What else do we do? Absolutely nothing. We take everything we see and twist it—contort it to our purposes until it looks nothing like it did before and is as revolting as possible.

And yet, I look outside and I see the cars and the planes and the people and the trash and I think, holy fucking shit, is this what I am?

Is this how I die? Choking in the fumes of my species, wishing I could have made a difference?

Damn, shut up Eli.

i think I’m gonna start going by Eli, by the way. My first middle name. I was going to use Tiberius, but the novelty of that’s kind of died down, and it’s no less strange than Sticky. I’ll keep the tumblr’s title, though. As an adjective.

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Time for another installment of Appreciating the Things We Take For Granted.

Today we’re talking about tables.

You can set stuff on that shit! I mean, you’re just going through your day, and someone hands you, like, a typewriter or something. And now you have a typewriter in your hands, weighing you down. And you have to walk around allll day with this heavy-ass typewriter in your hands.

But then, ahhhh, the angels come down and shine a brilliant golden light on something not too far off in the distance. You run towards the light, the cord of the typewriter trailing in the air idly behind you as you go.

You come to what the choir of angels are heralding, and what is it? It’s a table! Holy shit! Literally, because of the angels.

You take this typewriterly parcel in your hands, hold it above your head and slowly lower it down, down, down, and place it gingerly onto this beautiful, magnificent table, relieving yourself of its heavy burden.

You know that when your muscles are working, when you’re stressing them, which is what would be happening if you were holding a heavy typewriter for an extended period of time, you’re actually ripping your muscle fibers up underneath your skin? Yeah, you are literally destroying your muscles when you stress them.

So, you see, that table you just found? IT JUST SAVED YOUR MUSCLES FROM BEING DESTROYED.

So thank every table you ever meet, because they’re fucking awesome.

(yeah, yeah, the idea is that your muscles get ripped up then rebuilt bigger than they were before, bigger and stronger and more capable of being stressed more, but whatever, don’t let that decry tables in anyway).

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i haven’t done anything of note for the last six weeks.

i think my motivation circuit’s broken or something. maybe ive expired.

someone save me from this worthless existence!

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ADD

attention deficit add me on facebook disorder.

what?

I’m in there as Tiberius Bunn if that link didn’t work.

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all the manners that I’ve been taught are slowly dying away

this is my favorite white stripes album.

it’s a perfectly between The White Stripes and Elephant, the next two best ones.

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I am a big fan

of flour.

People don’t give flour enough credit. There’s no number for how many fucking things we eat that are held together with flour.

Bread? Flour.

Pie? Flour.

Bees? Flo..wer..s.

I mean, cookies are fucking made by the flour. Sure there’s butter and sugar and chocolate chips and shit, but the flour’s what makes it not taste terrible. Ever eaten cookie dough before the flour? Yeah, it’s disgusting.

You go, flour. You go and show those other ingredients who’s boss.

Who are you again?

Currently Reading: Paper Towns by John Green