“Patience is a virtue.”
She couldn’t believe her eyes, so she risked another look.
“Patience is a virtue.”
It was true, right there in front of her, in loopy purple cursive on foolscap paper, the three i’s dotted with love hearts. The note must have been stuffed through the grills of her locker sometime between fourth period and lunch.
Finally she made it, she was one of them, the coolest girls in school – The Virtues. Ruled over by their queen bee Chastity, only six other girls were selected to wear the converted power pink sweater with an embroidered V on the chest. And Patience was now one of them. Her mother Prudence had been a Virtue way back when and had been on Patience’s back about it since freshman year.
Now she would be sitting with Temperance, Charity, Diligence, Compassion and Humility at the lunch table, with Chastity presiding over them.
And the boys! She had always carried a torch for Wrath, a hothead in the schools other gang, The Sins. Chastity’s boyfriend Lust was their leader. There were seven of them too, and they were they type of bad that high-school girls love. Even Virtues. Patience couldn’t wait.
Instalment Twenty
A scientific exploration with the intention to identify the standard deviation.
Honoured guests, fellow scientists,
Today I present to you the findings in my examination of the constant allowances of science, the variations in research we all must endure.
The standard deviation.
There is nothing standard about them, apart from the fact they are always there, always popping up and ruining our lives. How many of you have had your day ruined by a deviant. It always seems like these deviations are individuals, unique in their divergence, but if you see enough of them, if you look close, you see the relationship.
A standard deviant. The standard deviant.
I stand before you today to announce that there is indeed a standard deviant. And I found her.
A verbal exhibitionist. A person that expresses private thoughts in public places. The most common deviation on the planet. A deviation so common it has become average and so normal you don’t notice it.
But behind you in line, on the phone in the supermarket or at the table over at the café, these deviants lurk. Ready to ruin your day with their lives, their unwanted information.
“My boyfriend does this. . . the kids like that. . . “
It stops today.
Thank you.
Honoured guests, fellow scientists,
Today I present to you the findings in my examination of the constant allowances of science, the variations in research we all must endure.
The standard deviation.
There is nothing standard about them, apart from the fact they are always there, always popping up and ruining our lives. How many of you have had your day ruined by a deviant. It always seems like these deviations are individuals, unique in their divergence, but if you see enough of them, if you look close, you see the relationship.
A standard deviant. The standard deviant.
I stand before you today to announce that there is indeed a standard deviant. And I found her.
A verbal exhibitionist. A person that expresses private thoughts in public places. The most common deviation on the planet. A deviation so common it has become average and so normal you don’t notice it.
But behind you in line, on the phone in the supermarket or at the table over at the café, these deviants lurk. Ready to ruin your day with their lives, their unwanted information.
“My boyfriend does this. . . the kids like that. . . “
It stops today.
Thank you.
Instalment Nineteen
I gasp, breathing mostly water. Coughing, unable to see through bleary eyes. I blacked out. I’m naked, it’s raining. Hot, steamy rain, almost tropical. I blink, clearing my vision. On tiles. Mouth over drain. Looking toward the precipitation I understand. I’m on a shower floor, curled tight. Foetal position. It must be Sunday. Another Sunday morning special.
“You alright in there?” comes a voice from past the door. Female, this must be her place. A face comes to me in a flash, sitting at the bar. She said something about being bi, I thought I was good for a threesome. I wasn’t listening, I was distracted by her mouth. The way it hung open, even when she wasn’t talking. It wasn’t attractive. Like a lazy eye, not fully doing its job, but not completely slack jawed, teeth still together. Lazy Lip! That’s what I called her. Oh Lord! I remember now, she said she was bi-polar. Guilt hits my stomach like a punch. I towel off, the door is ajar to the bedroom.
“Are you ready to go again Remorse?” she whispers, her lip returning to its default droop. Why not? I couldn’t hate myself anymore right now anyway.
“You alright in there?” comes a voice from past the door. Female, this must be her place. A face comes to me in a flash, sitting at the bar. She said something about being bi, I thought I was good for a threesome. I wasn’t listening, I was distracted by her mouth. The way it hung open, even when she wasn’t talking. It wasn’t attractive. Like a lazy eye, not fully doing its job, but not completely slack jawed, teeth still together. Lazy Lip! That’s what I called her. Oh Lord! I remember now, she said she was bi-polar. Guilt hits my stomach like a punch. I towel off, the door is ajar to the bedroom.
“Are you ready to go again Remorse?” she whispers, her lip returning to its default droop. Why not? I couldn’t hate myself anymore right now anyway.
Instalment Eighteen
There was a little girl who lived in a big house, with loving parents, attentive servants and all the toys she could desire. Her bedroom was painted sky blue with puffy white clouds on the ceiling and walls. Some people thought she may be the luckiest little girl in all the world. She even had a dog.
Luck was, as a matter of fact, the only thing she never caught. Every morning she woke up under the weather. Not the picture postcard weather of her walls but poor health and illness.
“Nanny,” she would yell.
“Yes ma lady?” Nanny would reply.
“I don’t feel well,” she would answer.
And she didn’t. She wasn’t faking, she was sick. Always. Everyday. Poorly. Off-colour. Infected or ailed.
“Ma lady has a cold today master,” Nanny would tell the Man of the House.
“Ma lady is suffering tuberculosis,” Nanny informed the household.
So it went.
It got to be that the staff made light of it. What else could they do in the face of such a bleak milieu. On the rare occasions they were unwell, they would send word. “I won’t be in, I’m laid up in bed with a malady today.”
Luck was, as a matter of fact, the only thing she never caught. Every morning she woke up under the weather. Not the picture postcard weather of her walls but poor health and illness.
“Nanny,” she would yell.
“Yes ma lady?” Nanny would reply.
“I don’t feel well,” she would answer.
And she didn’t. She wasn’t faking, she was sick. Always. Everyday. Poorly. Off-colour. Infected or ailed.
“Ma lady has a cold today master,” Nanny would tell the Man of the House.
“Ma lady is suffering tuberculosis,” Nanny informed the household.
So it went.
It got to be that the staff made light of it. What else could they do in the face of such a bleak milieu. On the rare occasions they were unwell, they would send word. “I won’t be in, I’m laid up in bed with a malady today.”
Instalment Seventeen
Floating out in the Pacific Ocean, somewhere between San Francisco and Hawaii, is an island. An island of trash, caused by the convergence of currents and wind. And humans. Constantly growing as evermore of our litter is added to its shores. It is known as The Great Pacific Garbage Patch, though once, some time ago, two hermits called it home.
They had not always been hermits. At one time they had been friends. But living in a garbage pile can test even the closest of friendships. Brawling for the few organic scraps amongst plastic detritus. It was easier to go their separate ways than fight each other. It was easy to give up on humans when roving across the floating wreckage of life. They had been sailors once, these two hermits. On a stormy night, one fell into the grey and angry boiling sea. Drawing straws, the captain sent the loser after the lost man. So together they floated, adrift in the currents, until, much like our rubbish, they came to the island. The missing men and the discarded, unwanted debris of modern life. Till the end of their days they roamed the refuse, the two hermits, Flotsam and Jetsam.
They had not always been hermits. At one time they had been friends. But living in a garbage pile can test even the closest of friendships. Brawling for the few organic scraps amongst plastic detritus. It was easier to go their separate ways than fight each other. It was easy to give up on humans when roving across the floating wreckage of life. They had been sailors once, these two hermits. On a stormy night, one fell into the grey and angry boiling sea. Drawing straws, the captain sent the loser after the lost man. So together they floated, adrift in the currents, until, much like our rubbish, they came to the island. The missing men and the discarded, unwanted debris of modern life. Till the end of their days they roamed the refuse, the two hermits, Flotsam and Jetsam.
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