Hindsight

Our thoughts have two directions: backward and forward. We're either looking behind us or looking ahead of us. Even when we assume we're thinking about the current moment, the moment we're thinking about already happened and is now in the past by the time we're thinking about it, even if by only a couple nanoseconds. Deep, I know.

Additionally, these backward and forward thoughts can be broken down into two sub-directions: if we're looking ahead, we're either planning or worrying; conversely, if we're looking behind, we're either reflecting or regretting.

There's nothing really comical about looking ahead. Foresight hasn't occurred yet, so there's nothing to laugh about or shake your ahead in disgrace over. Hindsight, however, provides all the entertainment your mind can handle.

Here is what's so hilarious about hindsight: Whatever you're doing now, whatever you're wearing now, whatever you're saying now, whatever you're listening to now... it's all going to be humorous or just plain embarrassing somewhere down the road when looking back at this moment (well, that moment a couple nanoseconds ago) –- most likely embarrassing. One day I'll look back at my "Takes on Life" and my checkered, button-down shirt and my expressions I've subconsciously extracted from various media in pop culture and my headphones’ audio emissions, and I'll think, "Claude, what was going on in your head, buddy?"

See, I already know this. I know that what I'm doing with myself everyday will be laughable in the foreseeable future. Around the clock, I'm sporting hairstyles and picking hobbies and parading idiosyncrasies that I'll only be able to recall and discuss with a self-deprecating chuckle, despite how seriously I do these things right now. All that we consider "cool" now will inevitably be "uncool" upon some future regard. That goes for you, too. We're writing our own comedy, if I may momentarily be profound. Unfortunately, by the time we've aged enough to have a full life of funnies and bloopers upon which to both reflect and regret, our brains are too old to remember half of them.

But it's all about living in the moment. The one that happened a couple nanoseconds ago. And that one. And that one. And that one.

Hand Washing

It shames me to even have to write this, as plain sense as it is now, but, for the love of God, can everyone just make it a habit to stop by the sink and scrub a little soap on the hands before leaving the restroom? Honestly, nothing blows my mind like seeing people -- good God-fearing people -- still forgo this quick, simplistic, and decent ritual.

I don't know what it is, but some people despise this. Some folks just effin' loathe pausing by the faucet and soap dispenser and doing their duty after their doody. Listen to me, please -- it couldn't be any easier now. Science has been blasting away with enhancing technology that fights the spreading of germs while hastening and elementaryschoolifying the act of washing hands. Stand in the general vicinity of the faucet now and it turns on. Stand in the general vicinity of the paper towel dispenser now and it unrolls. The soap even pumps out in a pre-lathered foam for you! You have no excuse anymore -- other than you're just repulsive.

And if you don't do it for your health and your self-respect, then do it for me and my health. And my peace of mind. I deserve that.

Truly, I can’t help but wonder if you don’t wash your hands after using the restroom, do you ever wash your hands for any reason? Is there a circumstance in which you'll wash your hands? I'd think visiting the toilet would constitute as plenty reason to introduce yourself to the ol' soap and water.

So, here's what I'm asking of you, Mr./Ms. I-Just-Touched-Myself: Next time you’re vacating the bathroom stall or your similar friendly confines at home, take a good, hard look at that sink. Gaze into that ovular, sculpted recess in the counter just below the mirror and think that this -- this -- could be the moment, the seized opportunity, in which you prove to yourself and to everyone whom you hug, shake hands with, pat on the back, high-five, or touch the face of that you have not only embraced the germ-free life but chosen dignity and courtesy over sharing your last encounter with your unmentionables.

You may now go back to licking that snack's salt and grease from your fingers.

Bug Spray

Well, I've got ants (and, no, not in my pants, but thanks for asking). It seems colder weather has compelled them to find warmer locations, like various corners of my home, which in turn has compelled me to load up on various chemicals and mechanisms for exterminating these millimeter nomads.

It was as I scavenged through my own random, forgotten bottles of poisonous compounds and then fervently yet meticulously read the labels of each product Wal-Mart offered in its bug extermination aisle that I realized how surprisingly vicious and bitter we've become with unwanted pests. If you haven't ventured down this aisle in some time, allow me to share some taglines and guarantees proudly displayed on the products found there:

"Kills on contact!"

"Destroy the entire colony!"

"They enter to eat, they leave to die!"

Kill. Destroy. Die. Man, are we pissed or what? I felt suddenly enraged at these ants for daring to set their little appendages on my bathroom floor. I mean, literally, it's not enough that we disable the insect -- God no, we want to bring them death. And not just them but their whole family -- sister ant, brother ant, mother ant, father ant, aunt ant (pardon the pun) -- and their friends and their neighbors and their mayor and their whole colony. This isn't simply getting rid of the pest, folks; this is delivering an insect holocaust -- with a smile, no less.

And then my inward cheers to "kill, kill, kill" transitioned to wonderings of why it's socially acceptable for us to instantly and vilely annihilate a whole clan of creatures with a spray, but it's criminal to kick a dog. ...I guess this is where I'm supposed to give a disclaimer that I don't promote cruel treatment of animals -- but maybe I do. I mean, I am massacring an entire population within my household and wherever else they drag the chemical disease as they "leave to die."

Not that I decided against spraying the holy crap out of my plumbing and moulding...

E-mail

Life without e-mail is hard to imagine. Modern society absolutely would crumble without it. This doesn't mean, though, that e-mail is without its pain points and just plain silliness.

For example, I think we all have moments where slapping a red-painted exclamation point to denote immediate, urgent review on our outgoing e-mail is a substantiated action. (It should be noted, however, that this "high importance" e-mail selection should substitute the 17 exclamation points and caps lock in the subject line otherwise used. No need to use all of the above.) I just can't quite wrap my head around this "low importance" option in my Outlook.

What situation calls for a low importance signifier? I mean, aren't regular e-mails -- those with no selected level of importance -- basically of low importance? Or is there an even lower level of importance than that? If it's not flagged by a red exclamation point, I figure it's not hostage-situation important, so I'll get to it when I get to it. But an e-mail with "low importance"... I mean, I'm throwing that sucker so far on the backburner, I might read that this calendar year, might not. Essentially, I guess it doesn't really even matter if I ever read it, does it? You, the messenger of this information, regard this data as so low of importance that you've intentionally gone out of your way to connote it as such. Think of it this way: If I were to sort my inbox by levels of importance, your e-mail would be listed lower on the electronic message totem pole than forwarded chain e-mails with jokes degrading blondes, rednecks, lawyers, and anyone of an orientation not of the forwarder's and attempted phishing scams from pseudo financial corporations.

Since we've now brought up forwarded chain e-mails... how about omitting these blessings and curses at the conclusion of the e-mail that outline my fate depending upon whether or not I forward this Laffy Taffy joke or inspirational story to seven people I know? I'm tired of reading e-mails that come with blackmail demands and unexpected repercussions. You know, here I am taking the time to open your e-mail and read it, and suddenly I have an assignment to send it on to avoid a drastic pitfall ranging anywhere from unhappiness in life to the death of my first born. I don't recall signing up for eWitchcraft.