Yesterday was allegedly the most depressing day in the year – Blue Monday. I certainly felt a little blue, so I was a bit relieved to find out there was a reason for my blue-itude. There’s even math looking stuff to back the claim up:
where weather=W, debt=d, time since Christmas=T, time since failing our new year’s resolutions=Q, low motivational levels=M and the feeling of a need to take action=Na. ‘D’ is not defined in the release, nor are units.
…so says Wikipedia anyway. I just want to say, “T to the Q power” as many times as possible today. I feel less blue already.
Wikipedia also says its some sort of publicity stunt whipped together by a travel agency and that the mathematics aren’t even sound. Bollocks. Now I need a new excuse for wallowing in my funk.
I’m too lazy to call up the little brother with his fancy degree in “Stochastic Systems and Non-Linear Equations” and ask him if I can use that frightening equation as an excuse to alternate between listening to Nina Simone while laying on flat on the floor and watching this video on a constant loop while picking at a scab on my knee. Both of those things sound WAY better than acting like a functional human being today.
You’d think having a mathematician as a sibling would be awesome, right? Nope. He flat out refuses to share his unique skill set. When we’re on road trips, he declines to calculate our arrival time based on our current speed and wind resistance. Allegedly the lack of oxygen in the car prevents him from computing what percentage of the car’s inner atmosphere is comprised of Rocco’s farts. If I break off a piece of his Kit Kat, he won’t compute the number of calories in that morsel. He consistently ignores me when I ask the probability of our reaching a state line before I request a pee break. He claims he doesn’t know a formula to accurately determine the number of bubbles in a bottle of soda.
It’s like he’s not even TRYING.
God forbid you go out to dinner with the boy and ask him to break up the check.
Me: “My head hurts, do your math thing.”
Thom: “What do you mean?”
Me: “Whack up the check.”
Thom: “That’s not math.”
Me: “I don’t mean use a cleaver and shred the bitch. Tell us what we owe. Pretty please.”
Thom: “That’s not math.”
Me: “How is that not math?”
Thom: “That’s arithmetic.”
Me: “That’s not math?”
Me: “Can you do arithmetic?”
Me: “Then whack up the check!”
Me: “Fine, will you at least figure out the tip?”