Autographs.
Just because I travelled halfway across the globe doesn't mean I stop posting altogether. Today's topic, children, is autographs. I'm not going to touch upon the ridiculousness of the concept of signing, and thereby sealing, extremely important, possibly life-changing documents with an entirely arbitrary collection of lines and letters. Nor am I going to delve into the absurdity of celebrity autographs, which, quite often, are worth incredible amounts of money.
No, I am going to talk about my autograph. And my mum's.
You see, I don't have one. Well, I do, of course, but I've never been able to come up with anything more creative and aesthetically pleasing than my initials with a couple of lines scribbled through them (somewhat funny story: when signing my highschool diploma, I startled the principal because he though I was striking out my name).
And trust me, when I was younger, I really tried to come up with something better. I've given up long ago, though.
Take my mum, for example. She has an autograph that has never ceased to baffle me; mathematicians could write theses about this crazy contraption of complex curves and silly swerves. It's a mixture of lines and letters, straight angles and paraboles, scribbled onto the paper with the speed of a polygraph hooked to a pathological liar, yet executed with a mathematical precision that would leave even Alan Turing himself bewildered and distressed.
Yet here I am. Three letters. Some random lines. Yuck.
Ah well.
No, I am going to talk about my autograph. And my mum's.
You see, I don't have one. Well, I do, of course, but I've never been able to come up with anything more creative and aesthetically pleasing than my initials with a couple of lines scribbled through them (somewhat funny story: when signing my highschool diploma, I startled the principal because he though I was striking out my name).
And trust me, when I was younger, I really tried to come up with something better. I've given up long ago, though.
Take my mum, for example. She has an autograph that has never ceased to baffle me; mathematicians could write theses about this crazy contraption of complex curves and silly swerves. It's a mixture of lines and letters, straight angles and paraboles, scribbled onto the paper with the speed of a polygraph hooked to a pathological liar, yet executed with a mathematical precision that would leave even Alan Turing himself bewildered and distressed.
Yet here I am. Three letters. Some random lines. Yuck.
Ah well.
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