Love does not make the world go ‘round. That’s silly, no. The weather does. Okay, wait, if we’re talking orbit, then yes, that is definitely love. To orbit around the sun requires massive amounts of energy. Love TAKES massive amounts of energy. Unrelated? Yes, probably. But the dictionary on my phone, that no longer receives service tells me that love is a “noun,” meaning “sexual activities (often including intercourse between two people.” And right under that: “noun - any object of warm affection or devotion”). Which is the one I’m interested in expounding, to you, only you.

I had hoped to see it as the first definition in the long list of love descriptors but, alas, the dictionary on my phone could fulfill no such symmetry. [More on that later.] But no, if we’re talking spin, it’s all up to the weather.

Weather, which runs across the earth’s crust as if it were on a treadmill, spinning us faster and slower depending upon its mood. The speed of the spinning earth is at best an average. The faster the earth spins, the harder the wind blows. Wind is just an idea, but I believe in the weather.

The world indeed bulges at the middle, near the Equator, but, rather than correlating to a heightened speed there—which as I said fluctuates, which fluctuates as stated—it is mostly just kicked up by all the weather; a vinyl record having more data on its outer rungs than on its inner ones: that much weather simply takes its toll. Also the weather doesn’t gain much traction at the poles anyways.

Science can be misleading sometimes.

Sometimes you must reign it in with logic. I can do it but only after some indigestion and general unsettledness. To tickle ten. Ten watts. The ten watts necessary to operate the average brain. The one describable feature of acid is, after all, a result solely of its electrical value. I am wont to believe that most use considerably less than the average ten watts, which is an average. An average of highs and lows. Owing to a general lack of solid weather in the brain.

Science can be fun!

My wife is a cat, for instance. All cats have an ‘M’ on their forehead, and my wife, being a cat, has one too. I used to shoot cats. I could again, or today even, given the opportunity. I’m not proud of it. Only cats without homes. And of unsavory appearance. Those maintaining the unhealthy air of unquestionable ill intent. My wife, though being a cat is quite safe on those points.

I once thought that I was not a human baby but a moon baby: I was an 'evil' moon baby banished to live here on earth, like they do. Or maybe my great grandfather was, whose name was never uttered, and so was forgotten. And that maybe that bad moon baby-gene just got saddled on me or whatever. But that’s crazy. No, my wife is a cat and the weather turns the earth, and that’s enough.