Q

http://twitter.com/HappySquared

Remember to draw a rainbow between your hands whenever you say “Imaginaaaaaaation.”

When visiting friends, remember: You can use the front door just as easily as you can use the toilet bowl.

Inflatable pants you might as well skip—if you want to fly, all you need is friendship!

When writing an essay, as your ideas grow, your pencil shrinks!

It’s not just blowing bubbles, it’s making BUBBLE ART.

If someone you know appears in your friend’s thought bubble, say, “Hi.”

You know what they say: The only people who don’t like a Krabby Patty have never tasted one.

Bullies are proof that society is riding down a violent road to nowhere, a road I like to call “Violence Road.”

Being an artist is a heavy responsibility. Each work of art is like a child, and must be treated as such.

If your eyebrows grow three inches and get all squiggly, it’s a sure sign you’re scared out of your wits.

Life’s like a bucket of wood shavings. Unless those wood shavings are in a pail. Then it’s like a pail of wood shavings.

A sponge can absorb a butt-kicker’s blows like he’s made out of some sort of… spongy material.

Spray a little deodorizer on a heap of trash and you’ve got yourself an antiques sale!

When chasing down your prized jellyfish, remember to let out a tongue-waggin’ high-pitched holler!

It’s important to learn the difference between bad words and “sentence enhancers.”

A Bubble Buddy is superior to a Stick Buddy or a Rock Buddy—or even a Sink Buddy.

A sea star will never tell you that you have bad breath–they don’t have noses. A sea star WILL tell you that you’re ugly, however.

Remember: You can do things the hard way or the easy way or the semi-easy/ medium-hard way.

Hugging someone and yelling, “We stink!” is pretty much guaranteed to totally confuse him. Unless he stinks too.

When a giant anchor crashes into your house, you may think it’s the sky having a baby, but really it’s just a giant anchor.

Having pride in your work is nothing to be ashamed of — its the only thing that makes it all worthwhile… besides jellyfishing.

I had always lived in a box. Don’t remember a time I didn’t. Always have, for as long as I knew. It felt comfortable, made me feel safe. Sometimes I realise I couldn’t breathe or stretch but most of all I felt like I belonged there. I didn’t imagine a time where I didn’t live in a box. But one day it happened. Maybe it was me, maybe just the box, I don’t know, and it did not matter anyway. Whatever it was, the seams of the box fell apart. Yes, just like that. First the seams tore, and before I could do anything, it simply, simply, fell apart. I didn’t believe there to be anything beyond the box. Even if there was, I knew it was something I didn’t want. Unsafe, uncomfortable. So the day my box fell apart, I could not see past the ruins around me. I clutched on tight to the edges and prayed that if I could hold it together long enough, it would lodge itself back together (like it had before). But this time, the box had fallen apart and there was nothing I could do. It, firstly, felt different. Incomplete. As after all, it had always been Me in the Box. Just – me, tasted strange on my tongue. Then I discovered I could stretch my legs. And my arms. At first there was pain. A sore you feel when you use a part of you for the first time (or the first time in a long long time). I liked the feeling, strangely. Then there was the air. It smelt so different, felt so different down my throat. It was foreign, slightly uncomfortable, slightly exhilarating. It confused me. And because it was my first time breathing I drank in the air, sharp painful bursts in my lungs. It was cathartic. For awhile I had forgotten about my box. The box. But I had lived in there for such a long, long time. So later in the day when everything new had ceased to be new, I went back and peered at the box. The relics of the box that fell apart. It looked very different from the outside, not like anything it had seemed when I lived in there. Sometimes I imagined myself to be back in the box. It made me sad, because I missed the feeling, so I quickly stopped remembering. Later on, I felt sad again, but because I had stayed in the box for such a long, long time. I wanted to know why I had, but I could no longer remember why, ever since I stepped out, I had forgotten why I had lived there in the first place. I thought, maybe, while I was in there, a sparrow had passed by. Maybe, I could have had held it in my hands if I had been outside the box to meet it. Then I thought, maybe I would have seen a rainbow. I remember a rainbow from before I lived in a box, but then again I don’t quite remember the times I had before I lived in a box. It started to rain. I cried and wished I could be back where I was sheltered. Then night seeped in and it became cold. I did not want to be in the box anymore, but it doesn’t seem as if I could live outside the box. I laid down on the grass and cried harder. And then, through my tears, I saw stars dotting the night sky. I haven’t seen those before, back in the box, or before I lived in a box. I thought maybe, maybe I could learn to live.

Something tells me I should read through my sister’s science paper more often, because she writes the darndest things.

Describe the life cycle of the butterfly.
It is very special.

Describe briefly how you would carry out this experiment?
I would use my brains and my hands to do it again and again.

You are a meteorologist working at a weather station. You have just received a satellite signal that the town would experience hurricane in two days. What would you do to warn the people of your town?
I would tell this bad news to the news stations so they can report it theirselves or let me report.

There was another question, where she labelled the penis as testes. When I told her the testes’ the round thing over there, she turned to me and said, “No, that’s the balls.”

Why are we tickled by another’s misfortune?

Why the compulsion to laugh when we see someone getting hurt, embarrassed or in total agony? Think about it. The simplest things, back when we were toddlers, Tom & Jerry made us giggle with the physical injuries inflicted on Tom. And then there was Mr Bean. We laugh because he is put into ridiculous situations that cast a kind of light over him to make him seem foolish, or intellectually less than average.

Clowns, stand-up comedians, Blonde jokes, practically the entire basis of laughter is built on another’s pain. Clowns hit each other over the heads with a bat, comedians poke fun at their own flaws, the most popular jokes are the ones offensive to a select group of people be it a certain race, blondes, the obese, or a famous political icon.

So, why is it that another’s misfortune can bring such great joy to us?

Is it because knowing someone’s having it worst makes everything feel better for us?

Has self-centredness became so cemented in our beings that the very root of our happiness derives from this integral need to please our individual ( and we don’t even notice it )?

What are we, when even the one thing that seems the most pure, most innocent, most sinless – laughter-, actually propagates a vile concept of selfishness and building on one’s grief?

Sometimes the world scares me.

It

I want to be an organ donor.

Because I cannot find one good reason NOT to be one. Seriously. If I’m for a burial, my body would rot ( picture eternal confinement in the sarcophagus, maggot infestion, and the ultimate mark of carnal subjugation – decomposition ). And the mere prospect of being but a pile of ashy relic as opposed to a fully functional body ( when alive ) completely desecrates the popular choice of cremation for me.

I would have no need for my body, at all, in death, so why not? Probably the only reason people are held back from it would be that the idea of having the body carved up seems like a macabre concept, and something about respecting the corpse and maintaining it’s similitude in death. But I say pooh to the form of useless item which is gonna be hidden away anyway, when there’s a life to save. Let your limbs live on, have your heart beat for twice its lifetime. Just how awesome would that be, let me ask you?

Since we’re on the topic of death, let’s explore its antonym; birth. I was just wondering about how sex and birth are such strong imageries. Probably the most beautiful you can get. Think about it. A human being is probably the most complex palpable object you can name on Earth. Love being the most complex intangible concept.

Love causes the fusion of two complete individuals to impregnate, to create another complex being ( scientifically being made out of the sperm and the egg, but let’s toss dianoetic notions aside and view this through symbolic means. ) which essentially is two lovers as one. I have no idea how to bring this across in words, but you get my drift.

Having a child is such a beautiful, beautiful thing. And it’s ironic how the physical aspect of it ( dilation of cervix / blood / mess / gore ) is so incredibly unsurreal. It’s the thing God has with equilibrium/irony of life again, I guess.

Death & Birth, the end & the beginning, the ham & the cheese. Oops, out of point. If emotions were blocks, guess where blocks would be fully stocked? Hospitals. The joy of new life and the despair losing one all in a single building. Amazing, isn’t it?

OH THE DRAMA!