Practical Applications of Pure Unreasoning

Hyper Relaxivity Disorder:  The Paradox of Multi-Thrashing Uselessness

A Fictional Case Study of Peterson: A Potential Observation of Quantum Idiocy

Peterson was on all accounts no different than anyone else he socialized with or worked with professionally. His Midnight blue suit was fitted just where it should be, his tie knotted to a geometric perfection, his Allen Edmonds cap-toes, seem to defy scuffs like teflons protects dons. 

But Peterson had a secret.  A really big secret.  The kind of really big secret that if leaked, would cause ripples of ubiquitous agreement, that yes, Peterson did in fact used have a not just big, but very big secret indeed.

Masked in the stealth homogeny of “Everyday Type-A Man”, Peterson had risen through the corporate ranks as adeptly as a monkey on a ladder, just quieter, and vastly less unusual looking, considering the conservative corporate history and culture of Brooks, Broches, and Englesmoughen(EBB), one of the most highly regarded Private Equity Firms with prime street frontage on 5 Ave (with a carefully guarded 6^th Avenue mailing address).   But in the indelible rumblings of Boughtry Englesmoughen, Founding Partner at EBB: “Hey, if Trump Tower can have 8 floors of Penthouses, and “grow” his square footage every year, what’s a little fudgery when it comes to something as trivial as what door you use to enter a building…”

7:17 AM

Peterson, pressed, primped, and primed for the kinetically infused “instawhat” that could, and often did happen at any moment.  Vigilant, Observant, superiorly connected, his soft white-collar fingers splayed elegantly, but damn firmly in contact with the imported leather of his 18^th century English writing table he called “Home”, when he was, as he was now, precisely where his heart is.  And that! Was not only the BBE cultural genetics, it was, to Peterson, a contact with the living and breathing essence of everything that mattered at BBE.  Finger on the pulse of leather and 200 year old Mahogany.  Steady as a metronome on plane, in a vacuous space, a mind space.  And as such mindedly defined spaces afford, Peterson’s own pulse was in lock step with the drummed out beat of life he could feel reverberating through his finger-tips, then forearms, shoulders, chest, neck and yes, at last, the cognitive terminus of creation: The Peterson Consciousness, of which, as a student of all things Meta, Peterson covered off that digressive circumspection with an effort so imperceptible, that the modes of his modal, currently consisting of 2 flat palms on his desk; Peterson, EBB, and some finely crafted composite of ungodly expensive ex-tree and ex-bovine, but what is sacrifice if not for the carry-on of time, precious EBB time?

But today, as Peterson time-sliced his way through a charade of faux multi-tasking, possibly more aptly described as “prosthetical mind merger” with the steady stream of priceless tasks, that flowed with a volume and force that would cause a non-EBB man to question “stuff”, Peterson was EBB through and out, and this seemingly, and unexpected immersion induced assimilation with not just EBB right now, but with EBB as it was in the days that were days long before this day.  And Peterson was by all accounts, 10 precisely, now a physical part of that history, as he reconciled that his in-touchness with the unseen, organic symbioticy of his once-untamed desk.  But pulses will pulse, and desks will stand, while hides will often do just that, and it was this revelatory moment that cathartically caused Petersons left pinky to twitch nearly imperceptibly.  But for that fleeting instant, and it cannot be argued otherwise, the full index of digitary pronation was disintermediated by a perception, a cognitive anomaly, an event of potential, that wreaked senselessly of dissention, and with it, the inevitability of confusion.  Yes, Yes, Yes.  Peterson had a secret, and in all the world that really mattered, defined by the sum of all sqft on floor 19 of EBB, this ethereal dissention could only have come to notice by that artifact of EBB history, that keeper of hearts, and that definer of homes, and it was beyond any sort of objection.  The solidity, tenure, and obvious collocation deemed it all but indelible scripture.  And it was at this point, that Peterson, knew that life could never, would never,  be again,  as it has been just 3 minutes and 27 seconds ago.  This regal masterwork, this import of importance, was no more, for ever more, the conduit to the pulse of EBB. No, in fact Peterson, in this moment of clarity, whose longevity was impossible to forecast, knew that it was now, that heart is where the home is, if in fact the heart was at home.  But that swift disintermediation of Peterson’s 37 years with the Objecte de Vie of 200 years changed everything.  And as simple things go, what Peterson realized now, ranked right up there.  His Corporate Personification of this “table”, was not a super effervescent magic that instilled life and meter where there was none, it was in fact, and fact is a strong word, and this was a time for words with strength, Peterson who gave meter to the lifeless form of “paper and stapler holder” now lying “dead” before him.  It was HE who was the giver of life, not the givers of life now so unnaturally cast into corporate compliance that were the givers of life. The pulse, the flow, the organic persistence of the office thrivery derived its energy from Peterson, and NOT visa-versa.  And this Level 11 Heresy was a secret that Peterson would bury so deeply in his custom shrouded soul, that just maybe, he could, keep, The Secret, from escaping and polluting with its realism, the microcosm of corporate pomp and circusry that was EBB.