Be-bop Skiddly Do Bop Schwee

Today I was dusting the dusty dust off the dust-covered surfaces of our house and I thought to my racist self "If dust is mostly made of dead skin cells, do people with darker skin have darker dust in their homes?" And then I concluded in my lazy half-assed, totally unresearched manner "No, surely not. Skin cells are so tiny, the melanin content would be insignificant at that level." And then I thought about how everything is just an elaborately crafted series of seemingly insiginificant events. Like the plastic on that chair that you're sitting in. Yes, you there! On your high and mightly swirly computer chair with the lever underneath so that you may properly adjust yourself to the height of the desk. Or pretend that you're taking off on a really slow rocket ship that only travels a foot at a time... *reminisce* oh, childhood. All that plastic is made of tiny strand after strand of carbon... thingeys, all tiny, yet oh-so-significant. Or the way that all the tiny cells in yo momma's womb came together at just the right place and time and made a baby.

But we don't appreciate the tinies. We only show respect when they all come together and make something that is much much bigger and significant... to us. Only then does it get a little spot in our tangled jungle of conciousness. Like that dead skin cell that just flaked off my nose. I didn't appreciate it's protection while it was actually a part of me. And I won't notice it in its dust form until it joins forces with a billion other Lisa cells and forms a layer on the fireplace mantle .

And then I thought about life, and how a life and a person is made up of so many tiny events and how we don't actually get to see the product until all the little events have accumulated and started to come together. And then I started to think of little events as battles. Battles that I have to fight each and everyday to create the dust layer of my life. Like the battle that I won this morning with the microwave as it heated up my bagel and didn't explode in my face. And the epic battle that I lost this afternoon with the garage door as it tore the mirror off the side of my car. And the silent battle that I'm currently engaged in with my father as he struggles not to kill me... with a monkey wrench.

But do the events really matter? And if not, then what does matter in life? Do the things that I may or may not do this summer really matter in the grand scheme of things? Maybe I was just created to pass on my "good genes" and then die. Or maybe there is a greater calling for humans and we should all come together like so many monomers and actually impact... something.

Herumph.