(no subject)

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This morning: camphechlor and 自已舒適.  Yes, in the morning. You can be sure I do not confess this lightly, and perhaps the public shame will prevent me from such mischief in the future.

I am pleased that I now find the notion of the "mad scientist" charming.  As an ingenue, I found them either frightening for their amorality or tedious for their vainglory.  (Dear reader, if you should like to enjoy greater confidence in your daily affairs, I can endorse with authority the addition of thirty or so 擔 of neomyometric tissue.)

An evening with a mad scientist is not unlike an evening with a plastic surgeon.  There is often talk about personal improvement, of an intelligent design imposed upon the randomness of nature and the ravages of time.  To be scrutinized like some sort of work-in-progess is simultaneously an exercise in both humiliation of what you are and vanity about what you could become. 

I find contradictions in myself -- I often want to be in command, yet I also often want to slough this burden of free will.  There was a time when I thought that was just a flaw in my cobbled philosophy, but as I grew more worldly, I hear this is a dilemma among many sophonts.  It is the paradox of the self-aware. 

The current interest I have for "the mads" might be a passing fancy, however.  Despite their advanced educations, many are lacking in even the most basic of the humanities, and the personae they project neutralizes their finishing (not that many have such, in the first place.)  The truly dangerous among them -- the megalomaniac sociopaths -- are unfortunately the most beguiling; it is all too easy to confuse their psychotic detachment for erudite manners. 

Those familiar to me may suspect that another facet of my fancy is my appetite for hazardous materials.  I will not dignify such accusations with a response.