Red is supposed to be all about passion and sex which begs the question what is really happening when those dudes put on leotards, a funky hat, and wave a red cape at a bull that is steaming mad.
These are questions that I think of but I am not supposed to ask out loud. Hence I am typing with mittens and I have bubble wrapped my room.
I learned a lot about things you can, and cannot, say growing up. You cannot say what everyone else is thinking. I think that is because somewhere in the Bible it says that it is important for people to suffer in silence. If we say those things out loud then we might think we are normal because everyone else thinks the same things. By not saying it we make sure that the struggle to answer whether you are sane or not, is a life long pursuit. Evidently you salvation is best worked out when you live in fear that at any moment they will discover you have escaped and they will send the guys in white coats to fetch you. Life is nothing if you do not feel like a complete weirdo loser.
You cannot say things that could save people's lives IF it makes someone else look bad. You must risk the possibility of death providing there is even a slim chance that the problem will not be discovered. Embarrassment, apparently, is much more difficult than death. I presume because once you are dead you no longer care what people think of you and again, we are evidently supposed to live as long as possible with that worry hanging over our heads. You are never more alive than when you are worried what everyone else is thinking. I, for example, was not allowed to point out that a huge green caterpillar, now turned white with the boiling, was in the cauliflower with about 5 of its friends (meaning those were the only ones I could see at a distance lying on the top). THAT would have been embarrassing for my grandmother. A guest eating one and dying ... not that big of a deal. Neither was I allowed to dig around to try and avoid a caterpillar when forced to take my cauliflower.
You also are not allowed to ask questions that people do not know the answers to. That is rude and is probably just you trying to show off. You must always allow the person faking that they are a teacher/doctor/minister/parent/know-it-all to continue with their charade, even if it means the entire world will be wiped out. Other people are allowed to show off . . . you ... not so much.
And you absolutely must never talk about the truth. This world was built on lies. People are comfortable with their lies. They would not be able to negotiate life without them. Bringing up the facts or the truth has ruined more cocktail parties than I can even begin to tell you. People who insist on reading or finding things out have no place in polite society. Polite Society will kick your ass three days past next year. They are that serious about their society's politeness.
I, of course, flunked these lessons. Hence I was dropped off by the side of an erupting volcano and left in the dust of the family car, as it sped out of sight. I can't tell you how I managed to survive and make it back to civilization because you might let it slip at a cocktail party and my family is living their life in complete happiness, believing me to be dead.
I am living my life in complete happiness believing them to be dead.
I may not have learned how to keep my mouth completely shut but every now and then there is this magical burst of mouth shutedness that provides those who love me with great hope.
Do people ever recover from a deficit so great as mine?
Stay tuned. I may yet, one day, just shut up!
Note: In the spirit of journalistic integrity I feel it is only fair to report my own failing, however minor it might be. As I was forbidden to sound any warning concerning the caterpillars to our unsuspecting guests, I could not, in good conscience, along with my deep desire to obey my parental units, point out that the caterpillar that had ended up on my plate, "accidentally" flipped under a piece of cauliflower on my grandmother's plate. When the dish was passed to me, a high heel pressed firmly into my foot with increasing applied pressure convinced me to stop digging through the cauliflower to try and secure a piece sans the lifeless body of the protein portion of the dish. I ended up with one. In fairness, despite several people having consumed the little fellows, no-one died. Caterpillars may be the only yucky thing that does not taste exactly like chicken.
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