The scientific community agrees that towel is in fact a verb

I can remember with some precision, or at least what I assume is precision because according to cognitive psychology such a quality is impossible, a day in my early childhood when I realized I could read. Except to my young brain, whose primary purpose at that point was to discern where food goes and the finer points of pooping, I interpreted this fearsome new skill as not something progressive, but the apparent crippling of my ability to look upon pretty shapes - "letters" to the terrorists of education - with nuanced impartiality.

I remember being absolutely goddamn enraged by this.

We'd be driving 'round the Masonville proper, and I'd close my eyes real hard and try to surprise myself with this fast food special or that gas station name. But to no avail - ghostling meaning would always come forth, cackling and unbidden.  I demanded that they bring back the meaningless shapes which used to fill my world like thousands of towering butterflies, for this intrustion of "2 medium sized pies for twenty dollars" or "Unleaded now ten cents cheaper" was tyrrany and I could not emancipate myself.

Looking back though? Shut the fuck up Josh, of course.

But here's the rub.  I'm in something of a similar situation lately. Except, more troublesomely, I've been studying Ethics and Political theory instead of the measly alphabet. The works of classical philosophers have, stunningly, cross-referenced and enshrined themselves within my psyche in a manner much like what I am sure scientists call knowledge. Now, every time I do anything at all in my mundane, commonplace sort of life, I've got Kant or Hobbes or Mill pissing down my neck about what it all means. This is a bit more stressful than the machinations of advertising executives. Sure, you can choose to not buy that shiny in the window, but do you really think you can get away with violating the Categorical Imperative or rendering your existence as a rational moral agent logically absurd?

Eating a burger is now done in the metaphysical audience of a billion sensual cavemen holding knives to each others' throats and demanding whether that shit is for business or pleasure and don't even think about lying because then everyone's getting fucked. It is bothersome.

Combine this with a solid six hours of cramming Cognitive theories of psychology into your noggin and you've got yourself a sleepless night on the blogosphere. I don't think Plato knew that I am actually just a computer.  Sigh.

"Percussive maintenance" sounds dirty.