Who Invented Maths? And Why Did They Do It? And Why Has No One Hunted Them Down?

 

I don’t like maths. Adding, subtracting, multiplying, dividing and whatever other shite you do to numbers sends my brain all SKEWE-WHIFF. If I ever have to do a sum I use my fingers which automatically shows me up for what I am – A MATHS DUNCE. How anyone could LIKE maths is beyond me, it’s difficult, it’s boring and it’s NEVER ENDING. It goes on and on FOREVER, beyond the infinite, on and on and on. 

Two and two make four – yes, I get that bit, but WHY does it make four?

And why does two minus four make minus two? You can’t have minus two, when you get to zero THAT’S IT, there’s nothing beyond NOTHING.

 

FRACTIONS – huh?

PERCENTAGES – eh?

ALGEBRA – biggleboggle-flummityfuck

GEOMETRY – I think my stomach’s rumbling

TRIGONOMETRY – Sorry, was I snoring?

 

People spend their WHOLE LIVES trying to solve one maths problem and then they die before they can find the answer, smothered by the tons of paper they’ve scribbled their mind-boggling shite onto. BUY A CALCULATOR, NUMPTY – not one of those solar powered ones though, get a good battery calculator, it’ll save you years of work.

And why is everyone who likes maths called GRAHAM?

And why can’t any of the Grahams SPELL PROPERLY? It’s GOOGLE not GOOGOL, you PLANCKS.

 

 

I’m going to count my Cumberland sausages. If I have twelve and I eat fourteen does that mean I’ll still have two left?

 

 

Little Emily Is Dying And Dotty Might Have Destroyed The Universe (If I Have – Sorry Everyone)

 

She’s had a relapse, a bad one. Branwell came last night, but they don’t need me to go up there because Charlotte and Anne are home again. I’m so worried about her I’ve done something I probably shouldn’t have done – I gave Branwell my emergency course of antibiotics that I keep for emergencies and I told him to sneak them to her at the correct times. Like I said, I probably shouldn’t have given them to him but I can’t stand the thought of her being so ill when the very medicine that could make her better is sitting in my medicine cupboard doing nothing. 

But the big question I’ve been asking myself since is – might I be fucking about with TIME and FATE and HISTORY? Might the universe POP or IMPLODE or TURN UPSIDE DOWN or FLOAT AWAY or something just as devastating if little Emily doesn’t stay ill and die when she’s supposed to? Who knows – I don’t know and you don’t know either, the only people who profess to know are the UNIVERSE BOFFINS and all they know is how to talk a load of SCIENTIFIC WORDY SHITE about their THEORIES. But really they don’t know any more than we do – they’re just GUESSING in their SCIENTIFIC UNIVERSE BOFFIN ways of guessing and getting paid a fucking great shedload of money to do so.

Why are there no UNIVERSE BOFFINS who specialise in COMMON SENSE? For instance, when they prattle on about the BALLOON THEORY – I’ve never heard one of them ask ‘What’s on the OUTSIDE of the balloon?’ because common sense says the balloon has to expand into SOMETHING. And what colour is the balloon? (I hope it isn’t yellow, I don’t like yellow balloons, they make me feel sick.) And why isn’t the balloon DEFLATING like old balloons do if they’ve hidden themselves behind the sofa for a week?

And WHO BLEW THE BALLOON UP IN THE FIRST PLACE?

And did who ever blew it up use one of those BALLOON BLOWING PUMPS or did they blow it up with their lips and their breath?

And WHY did they blow it up?

A birthday? A wedding?

And is there any writing on the balloon?

9 TODAY?

HAPPY 18TH BIRTHDAY?

CONGRATULATIONS (with a little picture of two horseshoes).

It’s all too complicated for my little addled brain to think about. But I’ve affected SOMETHING because WEIRD UNIVERSE TRICKS have already started –

TWO OF MY PENS RAN OUT OF INK THIS MORNING

What are the odds of that happening, eh?

TWO pens, the two pens I use – but I didn’t start using them at the same time, one was older than the other. I’ve left them both sitting on my kitchen worktop so I can try them again later to see if the INK HAS COME BACK because if it DOES come back it means TIME HAS REVERSED ITSELF and I’ll have to prepare myself for my front door de-bricking itself.

 

I’m going to have some Cumberland sausage sandwiches (my last?) and then a big swig of laudanum (my last?) and wait for Branwell to come and tell me how little Emily is doing. IF he comes.

Goodbye, my bloggy friends. It’s been nice knowing you.

 

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