Picture this:
Inside a pulchritudinous (i.e. a word for which beautiful would suffice, but would not satisfy my unquenchable desire to cloak reviews in obscurantist jibber jabber in order to increase my infamy amongst clear thinking individuals) novelty department store, you've profaned against the minor deity of lobsterlings and kinesthetic awareness by indulging a pathological case of 'foot drop' (perhaps indicating any of the following underlying issues: multiple sclerosis, stroke, alzheimer's disease, parkinson's disease, diabetus, an injury to the common peroneal nerve, which is located in the lower leg and helps control feeling and movement in the leg, having your knee pierced by an arrow, driving a miniature nativity set into the tender arch of your foot through grain alcohol induced ocular occlusion and motor neuron retardation, having a bolus of methamphetamine shot into your ass by a deranged Thai doctor in an effort to treat the worst case of gonorrhea she's ever seen. etcetera), causing your left leg to viciously sabotage your right with a swift kick to the heel.
You’re committed now. Committed to one of those falls that transforms you into a temporal torpedo. An Infinite Stumble (!) One that should be intimately familiar to anyone whose corpus callosum refuses to facilitate gainful communication between hemispheres, and instead appears as a trench. A structural demarcation which signals their perennial opposition, and so your bilateral symmetry acts only to ward against the suspicion that deep inside you are actually trying to kill yourself whenever you navigate bipedally, attempt to lob improvised explosives, or masturbate whilst launching improvised explosives, or dicing carrots: You pitch forward, arms outstretched, sometimes windmilling, the clumsy aerodynamics of your sweaty forehead masticating the surrounding space-time like a Brontosaurus chewing a rugged steak. Your locomotive miscalculations compound rapidly as you stutter-step in a manner both finite and unbounded, crossing the observable universe and arriving back at the inflection point where you inexorably blue yourself (i.e. blew yourself) with such force that your cheeks appropriated the vibrant hue of Maraschino cherries and dismayed shop keepers looked on while you crashed like an embarrassed Kaiju through priceless dioramas of chemical novelty
First you shoulder tackle a rack full of pencils, sending a spray of wood and graphite before you like an enormous rubber band ball wrapped tightly around a bearing inside of which rests a lanky girl surrounded by dirty magazines and cheap booze. You only have a moment to concern yourself over this surplus of scrawling implements in an antique shop before you’re then spellbound by the fact that writing is made so easy by correlations in the fluctuating polarizations of nearby particles, (a consequence of quantum dynamics), which allows the layers of graphite to nuru massage themselves and the papyrus you select to circumscribe the wholly unique depiction of Papa Smurf gooning the boo berries out of his azure winky while looking at stills of a Thunderian Noble in mid nunchaku kata (i.e. Panthro).
Congratulating yourself on pirouetting away from the shelf full of precious metals, you imagine their atomic nuclei embedded in a pudding of delocalized electrons, and understand how this property, the free movement of electrons, allows them to be good conductors of heat and electricity. It also makes for malleability, which allows for the the production of katanas, buttplugs, and titanium busts of Eratosthenes that occupy a valley in which their resemblance to the actual Greek Polymath is of a sort which provokes a nameless dread in prospective visitors. It’s also a source of strength, and you can be sure, if you had collided with them in the manner of those hentai story boarding devices which now litter the textured carpet like magnetic filaments aligning themselves erratically to all the poles of fucked-upness, you would've exploded like a thermally agitated bratwurst and your shoelaces would have snapped like guitar strings (citation needed).
That’s great and all, but we’ve established at this point that you’re not nearly graceful enough to pull off that maneuver without consequence. And, sure enough, you do a little compensatory shuffle and bulldoze into a cabinet of expensive china and priceless Fabergé eggs. Shattering covalent and ionic bonds with the cellular fuel you liberated from a partially developed chicken embryo and the contents of a Crayola Classic Color Crayons in Flip-Top Pack this morning. The breakdown and reassembly of chemical bonds driving you onward like an organic Sybian Sex Machine. The mortified owner of the shop calls out:
“Notice how the ceramics and glasses shatter along regular lines due to the patterns present in their crystal lattices!”
You continue through the exploded shards of history, you smile over your shoulder and toss a thumbs up to this kindly old man who moonlights as a materials scientist, rendering your next collision unavoidable. Lucky for you it’s just a sheet of papyrus, which is held together by microscopic bridges of cellulose called fibrils. You tear through the collective strength of those pithy bastards with a kinetic energy roughly equivalent to a coked out Gary Busey delivering a spinning backfist to an uppity kindergartener. Unfortunately, this ancient sheet of dead plant matter was positioned in just such a way as to obscure the presence of a towering slab of self healing concrete.
The Proprietor: “As you well know. Concrete is quite stout. But it is prone to weathering and cracking. What we have here is Bioconcrete, which is infused with bacteria that allow for the healing of these structural damages. It’s really quite fascinating!
And it would be, if you didn’t painfully ricochet off of it and lose consciousness.
How did this all happen? Well, you got really excited about this book you read called Stuff Matters, which reveals the exotic dimensions of matter that go unappreciated in our daily lives. How, according to the fixed rules of electron exchange dictated by the quantized energy shells surrounding atomic nuclei, ‘stuff’ in all its myriad forms most wonderful and useful, has come to define our trajectory as a species. Elated by this outlook on life, you skipped merrily into the shop, determined to survey stuff at it’s most peculiar and precious. Hoping, just maybe, there would be some aerogel, uranium, or antimatter for sale. You gleefully signal to the man at the counter.
“Hi! You wouldn’t ha....”