What is this obsession we as a species have with lines? Is it due to their inherent versatility? A line can become anything, possessing limitless potential. What is a work of art but thousands, maybe millions, of individual brush strokes on a canvas? We are merely brush strokes ourselves, interacting with our fellow lines on the Universal canvas of existence. Yet when brush strokes collide, what becomes of them? Do they intertwine, forming a complexity to be appreciated by the mind’s eye, or does one seek to erase the other, leaving its own artistic message in its wake? One thing is clear: these lines define our reality, they paint the very portrait of our existence, giving it meaning, and boundaries.
“Inject the girl,” Goldilocks commanded.
Yet it was a command I ultimately could not follow. When faced with the choice, standing on the line of destiny, do I cross it or do I destroy the environment around me in a rare fit of masculine rage? I think the answer is obvious. Any scientist of my extreme intelligence would gladly hurl lab chairs into cabinets of vaccines, and so I did. It was just as my professors had taught when I was a medical student, a pupil of medicinal science and chair-flinging.
“Remember class. Chairs are good for sitting on, but you can also use them to make a point.” He then tossed his chair at Nikunj, who had been masticating on a portion of gum. Indeed it worked. Nikunj, nor anyone else, placed a stick of gum into their mouths ever again. Of course, one could reason that Nikunj’s injuries made it impossible for his mandible to function, so in that case the cause of his obedience is not clear. However, the point was. Am I not to use this effective method of expressing disdain? Is it not my evolutionary prerogative to use every tool life teaches me?
Unfortunately, my display of human evolution, the enactment of destiny, had dire consequences causing me to fear for my life. Niki, the super-strong psycho-woman, was assigned to be my new partner. As a geneticist, I have long been fearful of the opposite gender; their voluptuous corporal essence creates a unique feeling within my being which I can only equate to opening a brand new bag of Doritos tortilla chips and being blasted by the rich nacho cheese aroma. Such is woman. And as a Hindu, I find females particularly dangerous as they are powerful creatures, sometimes having multiple arms. But as a taxi driver, I know I could easily murder them, hide them in my trunk and dispose of their physical being which sets my heart so uneasy.
This female is different. Her super-strength is merely a physical representation of her super-strong personality. She made it clear with nary a gaze who would be on top in this partnership. I cowered as a feeble-minded African gazelle cowers at the sight of a ferociously feral circus lion, and feral she was.
She would be the Border Patrol to the immigrant within, keeping me on the company’s side of the line. Like a Mexican intimidated by the complexity of US immigration laws, so was I intimidated by the complexity of the feminine. Like a Mexican caught in the headlights of a green SUV, so was I caught in hers.
“Eyes up here, doctor.”