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Quota of Stupid

I've done a few stupid things.

No, I don't think that's harsh, because I just read a lovely bio at the bottom of a blog post that went something like this: "Penelope is 26. She has always loved stories, though she couldn't bear Nancy Drew. It's no surprise she got her Masters in English Literature from the University of Statusville and now works for a children's publisher in London. Penelope is working on her first novel."

Similarities between me and Penelope: we both like stories. Differences between me and Penelope - young Pen didn't have an existential crisis at 13. Or if she did, the remedy she chose didn't interfere with her higher education or early career choices. She didn't, just to pick a random example, immerse herself in fundamentalist Christianity for twenty years until doubt finally whacked her round the head. She'll never know the dread of emerging into a harsh, godfree reality and realising that she is way, way behind everybody else.

If I ever worry (what am I saying? I do nothing BUT worry) I worry there might be a quota of stupid. Maybe it was given to me at birth, and because I've used it up too quickly before I die, I can't make up for it. No matter how hard I work, I won't make good.

You can see how I fell for religion, can't you, with a mind like that. On the hopeful side, I could donate my brain to science, and maybe they'd find a cure for me.

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January 2015

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