and so she can't complain

Dear the Australian Dollar,

Please stop that shit.

Sincerely,
Sir Tessa.

#

After being certain, and being wrong, I did some not particularly thorough trawling on the subject of certainty. There isn't much to be had. A smattering of philosophy, and articles on physics. Uncertainty, it would seem, is a much more meaty topic. I wanted brain scans, actually. I wanted those funky orange, black and blue photos of brain activity, so I could see what certainty actually looked like. Maybe even what hormones make up certainty. I figure, if i find out where certainty lives, at least I have a target.

Doubt is much easier to pin down. Doubt is everywhere. I am, therefore I doubt.

#

Dear Japan Rail,

The rail passes were supposed to arrive last week. Hint, hint.

Sincerely,
Sir Tessa.

#

Sophie is depressed.

She won't play. She just sits, and whimpers in the most heart-breaking and pathetic manner imaginable. She isn't off her food or drink, she's just miserable. The lead theory is that she misses Dad, but he's gone to Malaysia before without this happening.

You have no idea how upsetting a depressed dog is.

#

Dear Sir Tessa,

You suck.

No love,
Sir Tessa.

#

If I could manufacture certainty, I'd eradicate those oh-so mediocre self-esteem issues. Imagine how much more I could squeeze into a day if I didn't spend so much time and energy on self-loathing. I could create cold fusion. Abolish starvation. Write a fucking book.

Whoa. Delusions of grandure.

#

Dear World,

I'm down, quit kicking.

Even less than no love,
Sir Tessa.

#

But you know, the narrative laws of my life dictate that an injection of certainty would concrete exactly the wrong area. Instead of being pretty sure that I'm a useless sack of meat, I'd be certain of it. That would kill all motivation to roll with the momentum of life, so I'd lose my job pretty fast, wouldn't write, wouldn't get out of bed, probably wouldn't bother waking up, because seriously, when you're a useless sack of meat, there isn't much point with the whole being awake thing.

And then, because the narrative laws of my life dictact that Thou Shalt Not Have Any Excuse To Sleep Like A Lazy Snoring Bear As Thou Doest Desire, my own super-charged-mutated-giant-walrus doubt would come into play, and I wouldn't be certain of my uselessness as a meat sack. This would leave me with no alternative but wakefulness.

Shit. This hypothesis is fucking lame. Where's the reset button?

#

Dear World,

You're also too fat. Please lose some weight, and shrink the distance between this family.

Much Despising,
Sir Tessa.

#

I did a little reading on Descartes, not that he had much to say on the subject of certainty, other than he wasn't certain of much at all. The only thing he really concludes is that his own existence is certain. This is a conclusion that can only be drawn about the concluder, by the concluder. So, I cannot be certain about sun rises, or chairs, or that ever perplexing subject of the colour orange, but I can be certain I exist.

I think life would be ever so much nicer if I could trade that certainty for, say, the certainty that flowers sing only in barbershop quartets.

But I can't be certain of that.

#

Dear Sir Tessa,

Seriously. Shut up.

Much Tolerance,
The World.