Yeah, I’m smart. But my intelligence is limited to the unmarketable information that a liberal arts degree teaches and the imagination of a bored, precocious kid growing up in the Midwest. Often having “pondered weak and weary over quaint and curious volumes of forgotten lore”, I can recite about 200 poems; I understand Comte’s Sociological law of three stages; and I could give you a tracheotomy, if necessary, because it was on MASH once. Admittedly and perhaps sadly, I have no ability to assemble or program anything, and would not be able to do trigonometry, even with a gun to my head (nor would I know how to calculate the trajectory of the bullet). I will, however, tell you one thing — smart girls do it better.
I say this first in defense of myself, and also because I know it to be true. Those more intelligent are able to conceive pleasure from that which is non-sexual, and personify it into the tactile. I’m not talking about some elaborate device (or necessarily something perceptibly physical at all) because the ordinary has an attraction and a beauty beyond what has been contrived to serve a sole function. For instance, laughing is an amazing aphrodisiac and the ability to exploit an inside joke in a physically blissful way is very possible, and amazing.
I’m often grateful that no knows the extent of my ever-meandering thoughts, as they generally always culminate in tangled and torrid cerebral excitement; all having a genesis in that which is seemingly normal. Really, no one would believe what goes on in my head and most of the time, I don’t either — I should really spend a good hour every day in confession.
What I’ve proven here other than sordid self-awareness, I’m not sure, but maybe that’s enough. I will stop here before a incriminate myself further.