I have had Nervous Tummy for a week now, the kind that makes me pause and think is it this? That? No, it must be the Other. Everything ok with the kids, Bryan, Nacho’s fur growing back nicely. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something’s not quite right, and so I scan reports on the Solar Storm and radiation, planes being re-routed and Aurora Borealis, even though I live on the ground at Latitude 38. I can’t help but hope that the charged particles from the giant coronal mass ejection are what’s to blame, patchouli oil hoo-ha flakiness be damned.
I also read the other day that eReaders actually grow heavier the more books you download, the data stored by trapping electrons. While the number of electrons doesn’t change, it takes more energy to hold them in place than to let them free. Microjoules and attograms magical like fireflies, and this thought makes me feel funny inside.
If this is true—and it is because the internet says so—then what about our brains? What is the weight of thought?
I totally get that this is like whoa, heavy, man, too much of a fucking Fiona Apple song circa 1996 shut up already, so there is also this Kate Spade dress that I really, really want but cannot afford if you want to buy it for me. Who knows? One of these days some stranger might say sure, yeah, just let me know what size and where to send it, and I will give a twirl in my shiny new dress in this silly new planet spinning, spinning, spinning.