I have disappointed, deceived only the expectations of producing some ludic content, or ludicly, playfully presented one. Not exaggeratedly serious either, but as serious as it can take for an opinion to be, informed one with a well-intently elegantly constructed syntax. Nor either with the pretense of the absolute fairness, I reserve for myself and admit indulging in subjectivity in rapport with loudly mouthed whims that are out of maliciously gaping vibrating distortions because too forcibly pushed forward, even more insane the ambition to enforce the sting and embed a stigma on someone taken by surprise.
But that one is very me, the best variant of me in a context. Not treacherous and never malicious. Hm, I even propose to declare, to negotiate a state of truce, a period of ceasefire, a break for hate and detestation, hostility and antagonism.
I was so amused by the stats, more exactly observation, alleging that an impressive number of people get inspiration from cats on the web, some 80%, we can also equally get to other species in our capacity of amateurs, at least to get some attention and acquiescence from the community. I also have adored cats since my early childhood, but I would not dare to resort to a red, ginger, grey, black-and-white pedigree or ordinary, intelligent or lazy that is dying one, to put a premium on, to choose as a muse, to cover as an activity that I value a lot. But I have also admired the allegory.
Nonetheless I might be more interested in the absurd, exactly, the absurdity of some enormous intelligence can debit, the startling contingency of a blunder. Take one; during the Python programming lecture the Professor speaking about the dynamics of planning through programming gave an example that during a famine and consequently pest pandemics scientists could obtain some predictability for the development of the demographic situation by looking at the death figures, which they did and succeeded excellently well. The tests are reassuring, what was needed to be proven. WE drop down the measuring tool, shake the mud off outfit, flick the speckles of dust off topper, rub the hands and move contemptuously on.
Or, Just like in the horror story by the half mad not gothic but grotesque writer who first brutally kills his black cat but then discovers it again walled, built-in but allright and again, nevertheless, despite all feels happy.
Or even the very recent real case of the phantom ship mystically crossing the ocean large, undetected, lost, enormous, deserted, inhabited, only haunted by cannibal rats and the horror story dolls and the black birds hovering around, and waiting for the proper current, wind or wave or ghost more exactly fortune busters, hunters to hurl, unfurl the rope on the mast and claim ownership or bounty.