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18 November 2007 @ 11:12 pm
Some vague thoughts about the paper in front of my very eyes  
I have this notebook, you see. It is not a particularly noteworthy book: by this, I mean that it contains pages and is available at reasonable cost from good school supply retailers nationwide.

What makes it truly unique, though, is the care and craftsmanship that has gone into the very essence of the pulp of which this notebook's paper is cast. It is truly an amazing sight to behold.

The first characteristic that strikes the mind immediately when clutching the object and sizing it up is the sheer weight that embodies the creation. Subtle yet firm, this additional joust of force into my hands is truly an orgasmic experience, rivaling those I have experienced on my numerous rectal excavation benders.

Your average sycophant may wonder how, exactly, more weight would help this paper excel in strange and mysterious ways, as it does so exquisitely in front of said sycophant's very eyes. The answer is simple and trite: because the paper is denominated, described and sold by weight. In fact, on the back cover, I witness the inscription "Papier Satiné 90g, extra blanc, couverture pellicullée lavable, ref. 81471". Which brings me to my next point: this notebook is french. It's not canadian or quebec french or ever haïtian french. It's honest-to-god Jacques Cousteau style French-with-wine-and-affect. The kind of french that takes over half of Europe then gets exiled to some island.

Furthermore, the paper itself is lined and ruled in a peculiar way. I way peculiar, but what I really mean is extravagant. The lines are specifically designed to provide optimal writing feel for the distinguished cursive writer. What's more, the lines are of different color depending on their function: the thick vertical red one that runs along the left of each page elegantly splits the content from the margin. The margin, naturally, must remain pristine and unsoiled in even the harshest composing conditions, as it may be necessary for emergency evacuation of your ideas if the thought protection system deems them excessively awesome.  To permanently fix the Thick Red Line as the one true monarch of the margin, no other vertical lines appear westward of it. Only the insolent horizontal lines dare to extend their reach into this territory. For this transgression, they are punished by being made fainter.

The horizontal lines'  troubles do not end with the petty squabble at the margin. They have, since the sands of time have first started flowing, been engaged in a brutal war with the vertical lines, one which has turned many a river crimson in the blood of fallen soldiers. Despite their larger numbers, the horizontal armies are no match for the deceptively agile and cunning vertical warriors.

Maybe some day, I hope, the conflict will cease. Sceptical as I have become in my old age, though, I fear this war will still rage for many years to come.