I shouldn't do my calculus homework because it's Isaac Newton's birthday.

Dedication: I would like to take a short moment to express my gratitude to Hoda Sayegh, without whom this post would not have happened.

A couple days ago, a friend and I went to a cafe, whipped out our identical calculus textbooks and proceeded to jump into the abyss of mathematical knowledge (with a velocity of v(t) = -19t - 1923 ft/sec and an acceleration of a(t) = -32 ft/sec^2, calculate the displacement on the time interval of [0, 12]. Go ahead, I dare you). At the beginning of our epic journey to mathematical supremacy, we eagerly traded off new ideas and (wrong) answers. She would ask for the answer of the question she had worked on with hopeful eyes; I would return the gaze while enunciating the answer in a hushed yet clear voice; she would inevitably frown. Repeat.

Needless to say, our enthusiasm was contagious. People all around us flocked with alacrity towards other tables far, far away. It was now nearing the medieval period of our calculus era. The early excitement was wearing off and something less than friendly had begun to settle in. It reared its ugly head around problem number 19. Instead of hopeful looks, we exchanged barely concealed grimaces, and as if those weren't enough, we began to grind our teeth. We were like two angry bulls on a rampage.

My friend had a better temperament than I did, and in her wiseness, she stood up and walked towards the counter to order a cup of tea. I trudged on, much like General Sherman through South Carolina. I demolished the resistance in problem number twenty-one, set fire to a particular tricky one in the thirties, and decidedly practiced total-war (total-calculator) techniques against number fifty-nine. All in vain. By the time my friend returned to the cafe table, she found me in hysterics.

She tentatively patted me on the back and promptly started laughing. I glowered with no avail. After [2(401) + 5 - 207]/60 minutes later, we returned to our original goal, accompanied with groans of misery and wails of helplessness.

The intent of this post, sadly, is not to be an answer sheet for calculus homework, past or present, nor is this a testament to the conquering power of friendship. Although I suppose if you read it sideways and squint, there might be something hidden in here. Really though, I would much rather you spend that time doing your calculus homework.

P.S. Don't forget to round to three decimal places!

Ninja Me.

Last Sunday was the first time I went to the children section of the local library in three years. Humming a tune out-of-tune, I was enjoying a good day. As I entered the sanctuary of my childhood, I was hit in the head, squarely, or maybe the politically correct term here would be 'roundly', by a ninja wannabe who actually had good aim, with a hardcover book. Seven inches wide, half an inch thick and roughly fifty pounds; mix in Newton's Third Law and that's a lot of force. Ouchy.

Following my untimely near-demise, a plump lady, with curls worthy of Marie Antoinette, a shirt covered in flowers so ginormous that I'm sure even environmentalists cringe at the sight, and a pair of jeans that takes "skin-tight" to a whole new dimension, bounced over. Yes, bounced. A better verb has not yet been invented, I apologize.

'She must be married.' I dizzily thought, 'no one single would dress like that.'

"Dear, are you okay?" She beamed, her boots subtly squashing into my toes. "Oh whoops, I am so sorry!"

I gritted, nodded and limped.

"I am so sorry -" the obscenity of humanity continued, "that my son hit you! He was only playing." She opted for a coquettish smile that didn't settle well with what I ate for breakfast.

I replied with what I hoped was a charming smile laced with a thick layer of please-leave-me-alone. It didn't work.

"Timmy! Come apologize to this nice lady right now."

... And then after a lack of response from her progeny:

"TIMMY!"

"It's alright, ma'am. Really!" I had to insist, otherwise she might think I was mute.

"MOMMY, I'M PLAYING."

"Don't worry about it!"

"TIMOTHY, COME HERE RIGHT NOW BEFORE -"

"FINE!"

The little giant stomped over, punctuating his stomps with haphazardly thrown projectiles. By the time he reached us, a few more victims were already down for the count. I vaguely wondered why the mafia hadn't recruited him as a sniper.

"Timmy, apologize to this lady over here." Mother Ugly said.

"I'm sorry." Son Uglier muttered, looking obscenely gleeful. He toyed with a building block that glinted dangerously in the dull library light and eyed me with a practiced assessment.

I gave him my best attempt of a withering glare, which failed, judging by his impertinent

grin. The rascal.

The mother continued to fuss and coo, but she eventually left with future-murderer-of-a-son in tow. I felt a vague tinge of regret at having judging her so unjustly, but I must excuse my behavior at this point, which has most likely been altered (whether permanently or not, I have not yet determined) by the blow to my head. I stumbled my way down the stairs and wandered, slightly dazed if the fact that I ran into a bookcase was any indication, towards the back of the library, away from the brouhaha of the playroom - where my accident egregiously occurred. I thought I saw a canoeing fairy, but that might have the bump talking.

I supposed the point of this essay, if any can be claimed for it at all, would be that anything can ruin a wonderful day. You are not alone, no matter how much you think you are. So the next time a little Timmy plays ninja with your head or a little Suzie uses you as finish line in her 100 meter dash, bear it like a pillar of steel. An ounce of hostility on your part is justified, but never a grudge. Life is too short to hold on to these ill wishes, or in other words, there will always be a sucker somewhere out there who's suffering worse from the whims of fate.