***

Imagine, for the sake of illustration, a cue ball in a game of billiards. The cue ball moves across the table with a constant speed and direction until it collides with another ball. Some of the momentum of the cue ball is transferred to the object ball, which then moves away. The object ball, hitherto motionless, did nothing to stimulate its own motion. It was merely the passive target of the cue ball’s impact, but by virtue (”virtue” being an old word meaning force or power) of the cue ball’s motion, it was launched into motion itself, and so we blame the cue ball entirely for the motion of the object ball.

This passive model of causality is a victim’s model, and has come to be known as the concept of determinism: namely, that every event is caused by a prior action which wholly explains the event. The passivity of the model is one of the reasons determinism comes in for criticism, since it seems to rob every action it explains of any intentionality or purpose. While it seems to offer the promise of control (supposedly, you can fully determine the flight of the object ball by aiming the cue ball appropriately), in fact, the ability to aim the cue ball is not free. Determinism allows only one possible aim: the aim that is determined by its antecedent causes. There is no free action in a deterministic system.

John Valley (2008)
A Theory of Freedom


For as long as I can remember myself, I have been preoccupied with the reoccurring themes of freedom, choice and agency - issues that I have devoted endless hours of fruitless pondering, issues that have caused me quite a great deal of emotional distress...

Not so long ago I stumbled upon A Philosophy of Choice that brings me right to the doorsteps of probability and chaos. I'm not sure how much of a light these chapters are going to shed on my own personal riddles, but at least this is some starting point...

After days of rain, the sun finally came out.
During the past few weeks I hardly left the apartment. Spent my time on the couch, entertaining myself with mindless distractions. It’s curious how I alternate between periods of hard work and intense productivity and periods of complete slothfulness…

I’m slowly coming to realize that the quiet domesticity I’ve been enjoying throughout this break is nothing but a decoy, a cop-out, a disguise of sorts… Domesticity is comfort. False comfort. It gives an appearance of order, normality. A perfectly cooked meal speaks of ordinariness. Clean bathroom and sparkling dishes give resemblance of order. If I got the floors moped, I will feel better. If I pick up the clutter, things will appear less chaotic. And likewise, if I choose to rebel, if I reject the notion of domesticity, cleanliness and order I will completely give in to chaos…

And yet, I do not think that even the most perfectly cooked turkey breast will be able to disguise any longer that there is something wrong, something very very wrong in all this. And I’m not sure if seeing someone this time around will do anything to help.

I do not like this time of year.
I do not like the weeks that follow the holidays. They are full of complete and utter disappointment.

I see myself in someone else’s story. I see my past repeat itself in her present. I am envious of her in a way – what she’s facing now is the world of endless possibilities and all the promise that they hold. I’ve been there before. I still remember how it feels. And it’s making me nostalgic.

In a few more days things will fall back to their usual routine. My thoughts will settle down into a neat string of numbers. Logic and rationality will keep discordant feelings at bay. If I wait this one more week out, everything will be back to ok. Not great, but at least better than this self-inflicted torture of constant questioning and doubts. Things won’t have to be existential anymore. They will simply be rational, predictable, resolvable. Endless possibilities will be left for another life or yet another world that I will go back to come Monday….

It's time to take the trash out...

Ёжик в тумане

Ежик сказал Медвежонку:
- Как все-таки хорошо, что мы друг у друга есть! Медвежонок кивнул.
- Ты только представь себе: меня нет, ты сидишь один и поговорить не с кем.
- А ты где?
- А меня нет.
- Так не бывает, — сказал Медвежонок.
- Я тоже так думаю, — сказал Ежик. — Но вдруг вот — меня совсем нет. Ты один. Ну, что ты будешь делать?
- Пойду к тебе.
- Куда?
- Как — куда? Домой. Приду и скажу: «Ну что ж ты не пришел, Ежик?» А ты скажешь…
- Вот глупый! Что же я скажу, если меня нет?
- Если нет дома, значит, ты пошел ко мне. Прибегу домой. А-а, ты здесь! И начну…
- Что?
- Ругать!
- За что?
- Как за что? За то, что не сделал, как договорились.
- А как договорились?
- Откуда я знаю? Но ты должен быть или у меня, или у себя дома.
- Но меня же совсем нет. Понимаешь?
- Так вот же ты сидишь!
- Это я сейчас сижу, а если меня не будет совсем, где я буду?
- Или у меня, или у себя.
- Это, если я есть.
- Ну, да, — сказал Медвежонок.
- А если меня совсем нет?
- Тогда ты сидишь на реке и смотришь на месяц.
- И на реке нет.
- Тогда ты пошел куда-нибудь и еще не вернулся. Я побегу, обшарю весь лес и тебя найду!
- Ты все уже обшарил, — сказал Ежик. — И не нашел.
- Побегу в соседний лес!
- И там нет.
- Переверну все вверх дном, и ты отыщешься!
- Нет меня. Нигде нет.
- Тогда, тогда… Тогда я выбегу в поле, — сказал Медвежонок. — И закричу: «Е-е-е-жи-и-и-к!»,
и ты услышишь и закричишь: «Медвежоно-о-о-к!..» Вот.
- Нет, — сказал Ежик. — Меня ни капельки нет. Понимаешь?
- Что ты ко мне пристал? — рассердился Медвежонок. — Если тебя нет, то и меня нет. Понял?

Passage courtesy of Naked Silence

I cooked my first big-ass turkey breast. All on my own. I made stuffing from the box. I sauteed mushrooms and onions. Later we baked cookies...

This year I got my first adult Christmas tree. It has lights and red and gold ornaments. I wrapped the presents and put them under the tree. I haven't had a Christmas tree since I was thirteen.

I never thought I would find this bliss of domesticity so comforting.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Variation on the theme (or more on nostalgia)

Боже Какой Пустяк

Я вижу небо в нем тишина
Я поднимаюсь к небу еле дыша
И вдруг понимаю это во мне душа
Странное дело это моя душа
Как нелепо жить вниз головой
Когда такое небо есть надо мной
И кажется звезды можно достать рукой
Я и не ведал что этот мир такой

Боже какой пустяк
Сделать хоть раз что-нибудь не так
Выкинуть хлам из дома и старых позвать друзей
Но что-то всерьез менять
Не побоясь в мелочах потерять
Свободно только небо над головой моей

Я был богом в прошлую ночь
Я отыскал дорогу и выбежал прочь
Богом стать просто если уже невмочь
И незачем плакать дом покидая в ночь
Но оказалось даже тогда
Что все дороги света ведут в никуда
И даже когда под ногами блестит вода
Бог просто не может странником быть всегда

Боже какой пустяк
Сделать хоть раз что-нибудь не так
Выкинуть хлам из дома и старых позвать друзей
Но что-то всерьез менять
Не побоясь в мелочах потерять
Свободно только небо над головой моей

Поднимаю свой воротник
Ругаю дождь и слякоть будто старик
Бегу за толпой видно уже привык
И в памяти небо как нереальный блик
Но однажды мне станет легко
И будет все не важно и далеко
Меня примет небо в свой неземной покой

Александр Иванов

In search for that perfect cupcake...

Ну что, happy birthday, что ли?

On getting one year older...

“Holy crap! I have lines under my eyes,” greets me my computer screen at the crack of dawn. It’s Yulya, im-ing me on Google talk.

“I just looked in the mirror in the bathroom at work and was like wtf?” she goes on. “One day you wake up and you’re like I just aged overnight! It's like good lord and the birthday is coming up. What am I supposed to do?”

I try not to think about the image that was staring back at me in my own bathroom mirror about two minutes ago.

“Didn’t you get the memo that says that bathroom mirrors lie?” I write back. “And if it’s any consolation, my skin tone is not what it used to be. And I have about a dozen of gray hairs…And I am older than you are…”

“But you're cute and all and you’ll always look like you’re seventeen. And that’s a compliment, by the way…”

Regardless whether I look like seventeen or not, I have never been as aware of my age as I am this year. And that is without even having to see an occasional gray strand. First there was the trip back home that made me realize that had I been living in Armenia, I would be pushing it close to the dooms of spinsterhood by now. Seeing my much younger cousins married and with kids didn’t help either Yet, there I was, no kids and all, stuck in a lifestyle of a perpetual student that doesn’t seem to have an end in any foreseeable future. Later this year, throughout this entire past semester I was constantly reminded of my age thanks to the couple of undergraduate courses that I had to take. And yet, feeling ancient aside, I am coming to really appreciate the fact that thank god, I’m over twenty one and a quarter life existential crisis closer to whatever it is that I am moving towards to. Looking back at my myself at various points of my past makes me extremely grateful for no longer being that young, that misguided, that naïve and that arrogant. Looking at myself now I realize how much I really value the experience, the knowledge and the wisdom that comes to me with every passing year, even if I still react to the physical signs of aging with a “holy crap!”

***

I remember around this time last year I first caught myself thinking and then telling Mother Sugar that I am actually looking forward to being old. Somehow there is this image in my mind of an old woman – wise, serene, composed, in a big house full of books and maps … I see myself sitting in a chair for hours at a time, leisurely musing on things far removed from the everyday life, things that go beyond one’s own life experiences and things that I’ll never have the time to think about while I am young… I remember talking about this with Yulya as we split a mediocre brownie in a bakery in Tbilisi this past summer… and how we decided that when we get old, we’ll open our own pastry shop, and she’ll have a garden and I’ll study butterflies…

This morning I remind her of that conversation. And tell her that I have heard that vitamin E does miracles to the skin. I am also one year closer. And it’s making me smile.

It's about that time, isn't it?

I am three days and two final exams away from the winter break - the only real break I get to have since the winter break of last year. I finally feel how the craziness of this entire year is starting to tell on me, so the coming month of no obligations is much anticipated. And yet, I already have my work cut out for me: learn integration and differential equations; read on chaos theory and difference equations; read up on game theory that we didn't finish in class and go through ever single Foreign Policy issue sitting on the library shelf. Frankly, I much rather be doing exactly that than studying for the finals. If there is one thing I dread about school is those last couple of days regardless of how well I think I know the subjects and how well prepared I think I am.

Speaking of drama...

A while back I wrote a post titled "А напоследок я скажу," which happened to be the name of an old Russian romance from the film "A Cruel Romance." Although I have been been looking everywhere for the film, I was delighted to find the beautiful and heartbreaking song itself, which I am sharing with you here.

The bloody aftermath...

I am awfully sorry to disappoint my readers, but my adventures of this past summer didn’t even come close to resemble the colorful plots that my dear friend nicely laid out here. Unfortunately we’re looking at ramblings of a neurotic female instead of the drama of Mexican telenovellas. The diplomat didn’t turn out to be the cousin of the boy, there were no marines anywhere in the vicinity and I ended up back in Richmond safely and soundly, missing out on Cairo and abductions and confinements in tomb like structures with sex starved terrorists. Apologies again. If I can somehow make up for the lack of excitement, maybe I will, at some point in the future, when I am old and retired, turn this into an action packed flick, somehow managing to incorporate the KGB into this rest of the potpourri as well. After all, there are only so many boring old memoirs that the world can bear to read.

I do have to admit that this particular event did have a quite a lasting impact. After all, it’s not like proposals like this happen to me on a regular basis. If I were smart enough and knew better, I would simply let it go, attributing the temporary lapse of judgment of the said diplomat to Yerevan summer heat, alcohol, Indian spices and scantly clad women swarming the streets of my city, instead of wasting my precious time trying to figure out why on earth would anyone want propose to someone they have just met. Especially since I make it pretty obvious that those of my type are nothing but trouble, let alone suitable marriage material.

Had I been smarter, I would have known better not to question other people’s motives. Most of the time I can hardly figure out my own for that matter. As much as I claim that the underlying motives of US foreign policies are blatantly obvious, the dark and murky kind belonging to the personnel of the aforementioned department are better left alone. But even when I consider the most harmless of these motives, you have got to agree that proposing marriage must be the worst trick to use for anyone who wants to get laid. God, even I have over a dozen of more creative one-liners in my back pocket that have a better chance of success. Had the man been more honest about his intentions, I would have kindly pointed him to the right direction, equipped him with a couple of my own one-liners and sent him away with blessings. The story would have ended right there without any hurt feelings or bruised egos, as I would congratulate myself with yet another successfully accomplished mission…

And yet, at that moment, despite my seemingly cheerful appearance and humorous mood, I was really and seriously enraged. And the more I thought about it, the more upset I became. Thinking about the banality of this whole situation - a foreign diplomat in an exotic country, a young local female and the bright prospect of becoming a diplomatic wife … The fact that this particular subject was not a balding male with a protruding beer gut didn’t significantly improve the situation. If anything, it reminded me of the circumstances under which I was married years ago and clearly, it wasn’t something that they put in the curry that was making me sick in the stomach.

Some may see this situation as incredibly noble and romantic. After all, there was that slim possibility that the poor diplomat had the best of intentions. And yet I found it nothing but repulsive. I couldn’t stop but wonder that what I was encountering was one of the worst moves in gender politics. He was proposing marriage to a woman he had just met. He was handing it to her on a silver plate as if it was the best that she could have hoped for in her lifetime. Was this what he thought women wanted? Was it all that he thought women wanted? Was this his idea of impressing women? Should I have sat there, floored and flattered and dizzy with expectations of some happily ever after? I left the restaurant furious, wondering whether this really was the best that I could ever hope for– a reckless, thoughtless marriage proposal thrown at me as if it was the end all, be all.

But as I was walking home, I thought about women who may really want this. Women who might perceive situations like this one as appropriate, noble, romantic... I thought about women that would be happy to trade places with me and yet others who may be impatiently waiting for their partners to offer what this man was offering to me so readily and eagerly… Maybe I was missing a point; maybe all that I had accomplished during the years of my adult life was become a heartless romance-intolerant cynic. Maybe marriage really was some kind of an end-all, be all, and I was simply too stubborn, too vain and misguided to really see the point.

Maybe I will never, to my shrink’s disappointment, come to understand the point. After all, I am damaged goods when it comes to anything marriage related, given my past track record. And yet, even if I believe that marriage isn’t the best that I can ever hope for, I really wish that there is something more than reckless frivolity involved when it comes down to it. That night, still upset and frustrated, I asked the boy whether he would ever marry someone like me. Just like that. Over a text message. Unaware and unsuspecting, he wrote me back “Of course,” and called me to find out whether I was feeling ok. Now that, my friends, is what I see as true romance. Everything else can simply go to hell, maybe with the exception of a hot stripper. A bonus point if she has an eye patch.

Bringing the chicken curry back

Note: The bulk of the narrative and subsequent speculations of the current and following posts were partially written in Yerevan and have been inspired by the following:

I was only weeks away from moving in with the boy,

I had been thinking quite a lot about the Golden Notebook and the relationship of Anna with Michael and her fictitious characters Ella and Paul,

An event that is soon to become a focal point here – I was proposed to by a certain diplomatic servant of the United States to Armenia.

Yeah, you heard me right – a diplomatic servant of relative importance (neither his post nor his identity should be revealed for apparent reasons) proposed marriage over a meal of chicken curry and a couple of mango lasses (of course there has to be chicken curry involved somewhere in here, doesn’t it?) at a lovely Indian restaurant in downtown Yerevan.

The horror of horrors – what an ungodly act! Even the fact that I have really pretty eyes (?) does not serve as grounds for an excuse for such … (I can’t even find words to describe such atrocity). And yet, as serious as he made the whole thing sound (I’m not sure if you can ever take the State Department seriously), I certainly do hope that he was joking, otherwise the said State Department should be gravely concerned with the state of mental health of its employees. So to keep the same humorous air, I told him that I would marry him if he took me to Beirut for the honeymoon. He said that there was not even a slight chance of that happening and that Cairo was the farthest that he would go to draw that line of compromise (compromise? Before marriage? Come on!). I shrugged my shoulders and calmly rejected his offer, as I cold heartedly broke his heart (not really). The end of story, you would think? Not quite.

The thing is, crazy and ridiculous shit always happens to me when I am in Yerevan. That’s a known fact that can be taken for granted. But the usual suspects of such ridiculousness used to involve any or all combinations of the following: the fat bastard, peace corps, strippers and the marines… Diplomatic staff? I am not sure whether I should consider this as an upgrade or a downgrade from the above listed bunch.

The scary thing is that had I been younger and under different circumstances, I would have said “yes” to the guy just out of the sheer absurdity of the whole situation. And who knows, maybe I would have made it out of Cairo alive, we would have had a couple of embassy brats and life would become nothing but one drunken hash after another, since at that point I would have to start drinking and drinking heavily…

So the story itself is remarkable enough to be worth holding on to so that I can tell it to my grandkids. And yet, as hysterical and absurd as it may sound, it evoked a series of quite uncomfortable and distressing emotions, both directed towards myself, the poor diplomatic servant (who was quite adorable, I would have to admit) and another, completely innocent party that became the only casualty of this whole situation that I will unfold shortly. But before I take a breath to sort through my frantic notes as I struggle to organize my thoughts, I have to warn you that what follows next is nothing but what you may see as the bloody aftermath of feminism, and it, indeed, is not going to be pretty…Loaded stuff coming right up. So hang on tightly.

P.S. I think the fat bastards owes me at least two Cricket lighters.

***

Nika, every challenge is a stepping stone to a happier place than you even knew existed.
Oh, the magic,

The Universe

Learn to pick your adjectives

Damn! Right after I vowed to continue keeping my political beliefs to myself, I am forced to amend the previously made statement thanks to the recent numbers pulled by the wonderful periodical named the Economist. So in the light of such events I will have to make a slight amendment to the effect that I will abstain from pushing my otherwise rigorous and vocal political agenda on this blog, unless it’s somewhat related to foreign affairs, especially when my target happens to resemble the general form of "stupid."

The truth is, my outrage has been brewing for quite a while, starting with the unfair coverage of the Russian-Georgian conflict of the past summer by the “Western” media. Back then the Economist posted the more or less decent stuff on the subject, such as this or this. But then about a month ago this happened, and then there was this, which was not only poorly researched and all over the place as far as articles go, but also displayed lack of any substantial knowledge and understanding of what has been happening in the entire region of the Caucasus for the past few decades or so. It also insulted me, like it would insult any other person either from the region or possessing any knowledge about the region or having any interest whatsoever in the stability of the region. Those of you who’d like to witness a transnational virtual conflict that erupted after the above referenced articles are encouraged to read the Comments section that follow this particular piece.

Given the fact that I wasn’t really all that enthusiastic to discuss the events of the past summer beyond what I had already said, I thought I would simply let my issues go, especially when considering the otherwise long and loving relationship that I’ve had with the Economist so far. But my outrage was more than doubled after the relatively recent blurb that the Economist posted on relatively recent events of the presidential elections in the United States and the first state-of-the-nation address of Dmitry Medvedev to Russia (which by whatever coincidence or conspiracy, as the Economist claims, happened to follow one another). And of course, it pushed me over the edge.

Dear Economist, please help me make this clear - are you suggesting that the internal events of one state should be coordinated in such a way that they do not interfere with the internal evets of another state? Is it just me, or the mere suggestion stinks of absurdity? By the same token, all historic and other considerations aside, why exactly should Obama’s acceptance speech have been expected to be televised in Russia? When was the last time any of Russia’s presidential speeches were broadcasted to the American public? Besides, would you rather they turned it all around and covered the US elections for the allotted 45 minutes of broadcasting, leaving Mr. Medvedev only five minutes to address his nation for the first time since he took the office?

As for the content of the speech – leave it to the Russians to judge and please bear in mind that the popularity ratings of both Mr. Medvedev and his predecessor have always been and remain significantly higher among the Russians (compared to those of the current president of the United States.) Plus the former enjoy an advantage of being able to communicate in distinct, grammatically correct and quite meaningful utterances that they call sentences. Speaking of which - don’t you think that there may be a better, perhaps a more grown up adjective to describe Mr. Medvedev’s speech besides “belligerent?”

And please, please, leave democracy aside. It makes me sick in the stomach every time someone brings the magic bullet word up, since we all know that this is not what it is about and has never been, especially when it is becoming increasingly clear that “[m]aking criticism of Russian democracy a strong theme of […] foreign policy no longer enhances respect for either democracy or the United States in Russia.”*

See, dear Economist, it’s not like I have any vested interest in Russia itself or am particularly anti-American. I’m just anti-stupid, and this particular article (which I can’t label as anything but “retarded”) shrinks you to the level of dirty tabloids that would publish anything to make a splash. I mean, there is bias, but then there is well-researched, well formulated and well argued bias and it is the latter that will earn you the cool points.** Unless, of course, this all is a part of a grand scheme of pushing another kind of fear-infused agenda (one of the comments, I shit you not, was “Russia scares the hell out of me…”), and fear, in its all shapes and forms, has been a highly coveted commodity in the political world as of late, as Mr. Colbert recently mentioned.

With all due respect, you’ve got to be higher than that.

P.S. For those who may be interested in a better researched, better formulated and more level headed account of past and present challenges as well as the shaping of US-Russia relations, I recommend Charles King's essay sited below (read preview here)


* Chares King. The Five Day War: Managing Moscow After the Georgia Crisis. Foreign Affairs. November/December 2008. p. 22.

** There is also, so I hear, the omitted variable bias, but that is usually left to be discussed in modern econometric courses.

It may still be worth sticking around...

Despite the fact that in my idealistic heart of hearts I keep a very warm and cherished spot for anarchism, I am, after all, a product of the “motherland” and notions like “capitalist pigs,” “exploitation” and “injustice“ about the rest of the non-socialist world were drilled into my head way before I started learning the alphabet. So as far as my political beliefs go, I lean left – and that is far left. Yet, as strong as my political beliefs are, I choose to spare my readers from what may be perceived in these whereabouts as nothing less but socialist propaganda. In fact, I don’t talk much politics in this blog at all. I also haven’t voiced any opinion about this year’s grand circus either pre or post election, even though I was following it quite closely (via Jon Stewart, of course). Now that the election is over, all I can say is that I am happy that Obama won, even if he is hardly left enough for me to swear by his name. And since I cannot come up with anything else half decent on the said subject, I am referring you to this piece over at The Upside of Entropy - a brilliant depiction of the impending doom that the democrats have for us coming.

[…] by the end of the first year the new Democratic Majority will have already doomed the planet by appointing a bisexual llama to the Supreme Court, giving illegal aliens special laser guns that destroy patriotism, replacing the American flag with a "postmodern" flag that, being entirely blank, can be interpreted to be whatever you want it to be, mandating that all adults over age of 20 must marry at least one piece of furniture and consummate the union in a place of worship, renaming the country "New Europe", replacing the National Anthem with Kajagoogoo's 1983 hit "Too Shy" and adding a constitutional amendment randomly shuffling the definitions of "man", "woman" and "wanksta" twice every calendar year.

I wonder if legal aliens get to play a role in here somewhere. My favorite part:

Their final acts-- Subpoenaing God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit for "possession of suspicious metaphysical properties" and replacing Christmas with a state holiday devoted to the activity of throwing unwrapped condoms at a bust of Ronald Reagan-- will finally push the Almighty over the edge and trigger an immediate snuffing-out of all material substance. God will shake his head sadly at his failed experiment and move on to other pursuits, though it is likely he will, after a few millenia, break down and recreate a pocket-sized Sean Hannity to keep around for company and occasional moral advice.

Like I said – brilliant.

Because the English language is not compatible with Russian humor

"Какая Ваша самая большая положительная черта?"

"Умная."

"A Какая Ваша самая большая отрецательная черта?"

"Шибко умная."

Feel free to disagree (with the title, of course, rather than the content). And while you're at it, give me a hint as to how to translate the perky little word "шибко."

The fall in Richmond has been beautiful...

***

I know it’s been a while. Long drawn silences like this seem to have become a periodic occurrence. My other daily commitments draw my attention away from this little creation of mine, even though I know that at a given time I could probably write about at least half a dozen topics that bounce around my head, neither fully formed nor expressed.

The truth is, more often than not, my cognitive process as of late has been revolving around numbers, and even when I am not solving one of these crazy multivariate optimization sets, I catch myself thinking in numbers, thinking about numbers and even dreaming in numbers.

I am weathering this semester quite well. It has been much harder than any of my past academic experiences, but that’s the whole beauty of it. I am amazed that among all the Econ, Stats and Math majors, I am performing just as well. Even if I did start with a relative disadvantage, even if I, as one of my professors warned me, was facing certain challenges in a particular class since I did not have a proper background in statistics, I feel comfortable, capable and at home in this new solace of mine.

My love affair with math is in full swing. Even though I am here to study economics, I seem to be more interested in mathematical expression of a given concept, than its real-world implications and interpretations. I know there is a certain danger of becoming myopic if I let this become a deeply engraved habit. After all, the real world does not behave in a rational or predictable way, in real world I do not have the luxury of holding other things constant and since it is far from being as perfect as mathematical models are.

Yet, as a recovering perfectionist, I seem to have found a new and fascinating outlet to channel my obsessions. Math is perfection. A kind of perfection that can be obtained. A kind of excellence that can be achieved by application of pure logic and rationality and a few straightforward rules. It’s simple and beautiful even in its most complicated problems. Besides being truly and deeply fascinated by it, I find endless comfort in it, since as fucked up as this may sound, it allows me a chance to reach for perfection without having to starve myself or throw up all over myself or annihilate myself with self-loathing and hatred. And I find it just as remarkable as rewarding.

Snippet from a recent conversation

"You know, living together feels like you're passing all these little tests..."
"Like what? You realize that you're not a complete shithead around him?"
"It's not what I had in mind, but yeah, that too."
"So you're not a complete shithead around him?"
"I'm not. I'm actually quite sweet."
"Sweet? He thinks that or you think that?"
"He thinks that... but more importantly, I know that."
"What? You? Sweet?"
"Yeah, if you can believe that..."
"Well, then, if he has found a way to make you be sweet, then I say he's the right man for the job..."
"Which was what I meant by saying that living together feels like passing all these little tests."