World War Five

I bought myself a pillow stuffed with buckwheat and millet hulls. When I lay my head on it, it is as hard as a rock - but it is a strangely comfortable rock. My neck has never felt better. My sleep is far from perfect still, but it is much improved. All thanks to a sack full of agricultural debris that I paid an ass-load of money for.

I’ve slept on pillows stuffed with feathers, down, polyester fiberfill, and high-tech memory foam. They all suck. This pillow stuffed with farm waste, popular in the middle ages, is by far the best pillow I have ever slept on.

Progress ain’t progress if shit gets worse.

Now I want a whole bed stuffed with buckwheat hulls. Fuck this innerspring mattress shit. Whose bright idea was it to sleep on METAL SPRINGS? Real genius material there.

Buckwheat hulls are expensive and heavy. Once upon a time, I bet they were free, like water and air used to be.

The good old days…

Tags: saving the world by frankenstoen
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Why are they called ice cubes when they even aren’t cubes at all? I mean, sure, they are hexahedrons, but none of the faces are even remotely square. Maybe “ice hexahedrons” just doesn’t roll off of the tongue as easily.

Sure, a perfect cube wouldn’t come out of the damn tray as easily, but it would be worth it just for the aesthetic delight. (Much like the thrill of putting a cube of sugar in a cup of tea makes it seem to taste better than a shapeless heap of crystals dumped in with a spoon does.) (Or four cubes, one doesn’t quite provide the right amount of sweetness for my sugary tooth.)

Where was I? Where am I? Ice. Yeah. Saw a movie a long time ago, like 20 years ago, Harrison Ford starring as a crazy inventor that builds an ice machine in the jungle. Mosquito Coast. That was the name of the film, I think. It’s been so long, can’t remember if his ice was cubical or not.

I really hate those round cylinders of ice you get from a lot of ice-makers. Rubbish, that’s what that is. No, it should be a perfect cube, say, three centimeters to a side, so you get a perfect 27 cubic centimeters of frozen H20. That would be a nice right treat, that.

10:37 pm - way past time for me to be in bed, damn the internet! Over an hour past my time of retreat. Sleep, cruel sleep. To bed I go. My ice is melting, my drink diluted, my rantings fizzle out to a premature finish, lacking closure, satisfaction or even a hint of pleasure for you, the poor reader.

Tags: rants by frankenstoen
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