Trying not to be sentimental for the sake of an abused cat, I come back to the disconnects I find I need to patch before I can go back to my obsessive self. If we live in a house as opposed to, say, Madame Todgers Gentlemen's Establishment, obsessiveness is weariness. Were I to attempt to count the number of things in my house, I would get frustrated by things like sausages and bananas, which, reminding me that no matter what I do I can't give myself satisfaction, will require me to add variables to my inventory, because counting things all day will make us hungry.
Our goal, such as it is, is to count things which definitely belong to us, and which definitely are not rubbish. Obsessive inventorizing will be made the harder for us finding that we've made pieces of string from yarn. As we may offer to tie someone's hair up, which person has decided that though short hair is convenient, getting it cut brings the equation of convenience to look at the word integer in comparison to the set of whole numbers, which can also be said of telling someone to buy something to keep the hair out the face, we can only be thankful that our hair is straight, and not curly like people whose hair is like the spaghetti they say is impossible to produce outside of a country which hasn't, as far as we know, ever considered the idea of excluding something which may please a man from the broad term of hospitality.
They say a calculating man's mind always comes back to one thing, which will get him choosing someone else's satisfaction above his own. For the sake of the argument, then, we assume a man, whose wife is pregnant, has been asked by her to work out the exact number of things which the two of them own. This is, he knows, an integer more important than his net worth.
Some suggest that the centre of a man's possessions is his wife. But I can't imagine what a wife of mine won't declare is rubbish. Of course, if we are obsessive and queer about it, we might find that a box containing things cannot be counted as one thing. For example, besides boxes containing things that are deliberately made to be put together, which have the number of atoms printed on the box, we have (for the sake of the instantiation of queer activities boys indulge themselves in when bored) a hierarchical namespace behind what is in front of us.
A hard drive is one thing (which can be a noun or a verb); but some verbs relate to the word experience (which makes some people wish they had a job which has them in a saddle or a seat all day and every day). Hence our difficulty with a language which uses some fruit as both verbs and nouns.
Confusing a verb and a noun is not a matter of confusion, to those who know their roots. Sex, for instance, is something which people are told to go out and look for, and then, returning home with only their own person, are told by people who insist that gender confusion is coming from above or below, that sexual confusion is a thing of the past, but a man who is a known philanderer has at least proof that he isn't confused.
I have a habit of comparing myself to girls, even though strictly speaking I'm not allowed to call myself a boy. This gender classification was effaced by people who sold themselves for a quick buck, and went on to describe what was underneath their clothes to everyone they even were remotely related to. Boys with loving mothers were taught to forgive them for the one and only reason that otherwise they would kill them on the spot.
Sometimes, for instance, we might find ourselves facing the one person who deserves to die by our hand, but instead chatting about times when they were doing their worst with their advanced age: 'look at me and my empowered job.'
How can creatures possibly talk about other ceatures being ocd, when the first lot insist that the calculating ones believe classification to be a matter of preference?
Do women not have a knack of producing boys who can do what their husbands can't?