Today i fooled around with cooking once more. It has been habituated into my routine programming. But again I was infested by the ubiquitous greed in me. (recall in Freudian interpretation, and under the resurgence of the notion of self in modern psycho-analysis, I != me). So all hinged upon a really really sharp knife. So fucking sharp that as a mortal I couldn’t comprehend the consequence of a corporeal incursion. Nevertheless the long carefully divined obscene occured. Bcwyee, like the death wish of a naked onion, a slice of skin from my middle finger (symbolic of the male genital as we are all familar) was slit open at a skewed angle — almost tangentially — without arousing an immediate pandemonium in the kitchen. I suppose it was my left hand, which has been honed by violin strings into an amazing piece of callus cumulus. Shit! Now my title as the Mr. Dishwasher, or winner of the impeccable pan-continental male beauty contest is all over. No worthy aesthete will tolerate the sight of a lacerated bloody ravine in the most delicate precipice of my middle fucking finger.
I have to admit a brain full of nonsense can sometimes lead to unexpected suicidal moves. Today I learn a certain lesson, but my soul refuses to generalize it, apply it to different context, so the next day the same lesson at the next intensity level kicks in again. Sometimes you think it’s so easy to avoid the same exact unpleasant scenario in life. But think about how often the word Deja Vu is used! A cogitating man like me is unable to control the vigilance level of his fate. His mind is constantly preoccupied, rendering it unable to adjust to changing externality. Best I can do is to get a dozen of solid alarm clock, set up in an automated fashion that reminds me what I need to do at certain time. They should militate the inconsequential part of my body to force the slothful carrion into jambilee actions.
I mentioned greed in the beginning, only to get consumed by greed of script and forget to complete the stream of thought. Well what happened was that I was trying to cut the part of Chinese Bok Choi that’s close to the root. And that part is hard as rock. Even the most penetrating of all blades failed to cleave through with nonchalant finesse. So it ended up cleaving through the more manageable purlieu — the tip of my most potent finger. And alas! It was the lurid thought that with an inch deeper into the epidermis, the whole ritual could turn into a peripheral decapitation, that really prompted me into writing this manifesto of greed. So how exactly is greed related to the present cut? Well recall the Chinese Bok Choi, and how it has got a tough base. Had I been content with the leafage and let go the base, everything would have been ok. I wouldn’t have resorted to the most deadly in the kitchen armory, that’s all.