Saturday, April 18, 2009
There are 25 different types of people in the world. I say this not in jest, but after careful consideration of the factions that horde our personal spaces in manifold; you know – the dog people, the cat people, the XBOX360 live-ins, the PS3 swear-bys, Evolution X vs the new Impreza STi… and so on and so forth. Actually there might be more than 25 different types of people – no, there ARE – and on impassive derision you are probably one of them. I don’t know why I said that, but then, I am too, so we’re together on this.
Its worth thinking, I think, that if you dare not to be different, but instead dare to be yourself, then difference is a guaranteed toy in your happy meal of poised disposition. But then this begs the question, how different (whether as a result of remaining true to self or sticking the nail out) should we even dare to be? Meridith West said once, “If you want to stand out, don’t be different – be outstanding.”
Ah, the twist :) Heres the explanation...
Personally, I’d ditch all the difference in the world if that meant I could eternally remain in the optimist type-of-people group. What is worth thinking, is it is not that a thousand men descend to the conquer of a single warrior, but that a single warrior can so powerfully grasp the attention of a thousand men. A potential for heartbreaking massacre churned in with wallowing pity and the makings of probably a boring novel, turned into a scroll of heroics and a testament to the man’s character with the semi-emotional get-you-up pricks of arousement you get from the soundtrack of a well-made, high-end movie. But its also different, because although it used the same optimistic blueprint, nobody in the world could have done it like you did, and somehow… you’re still unique, just like everybody else. And you’re outstanding. Just because you did it.
So I’m at this KFC down Sheikh Zayed road right, and man, It used to be a lot easier, a lot simpler. At this point and time I’d rather be exposed to the centripetal force of a wind tunnel, hanging for my life off half a wisp of bamboo than confront the Filipino behind the counter whom I saw share a room with like 6 other people (and since I've never even eaten from this chain I'm not about to start), but my friend is all for this within-budget, wrapped up new KFC offering that guarantees the Michelin Man look (its an active ingredient) in what I’m guessing is pretty quickly.
We’re looking into these three big blocks of cheap fat-filled cheese sticking on week-long refried grease wrapped in fake white-bread tortilla with ink from the KFC wrapping paper diffusing into the overall goodness. As if this is not enough, the apparent lack of cheese prompts the counter-girl to ask, ‘want cheese with that?’ In my mind her accent sounds so nose-boogey filled, the intentions it avidly fails to conceal are only far from innocuous. Ew.
Since this is Dubai, by the time I walk out of the shop bricks have been removed from the pavement and red-tape barriers are set on cones to cordon off the parameter. While this may have been necessary as a pointless expenditure by the government which I totally agree with (because ofcourse, there goes my Salik), theres’ now hardly any space left on the side-step for me to get onto wider ground. Then, whoa, the guy coming up is huge. Maybe life hasn’t been very kind to him, so I tip-tap back a few steps into the outlet to let him enter and occupy both doors as he does so. How is he going to get out straight onto this pavement?, I’m thinking. But then, it doesn’t matter, its’ probably a one way trip anyway. Or the bricks will have been put into place again by then.