A Philosophical Crisis on the Subject of Salads

robert langellier

Oh my god, what is a salad?

Language is here to signify things, right? And so a word represents a thing, a thing or a concept or some thought that can be visualized in your mind. And so what is a salad? It's so flexible. That word can go so many places. Like, like, what constitutes it? What universal boundaries does a salad abide by, do you know what I'm saying? What are the edges of a salad, what are its basic requirements? I know there are leaves involved, leaves man, leaves are involved in fucking a lot of things. Maybe a tree is a salad. Okay, salads also have other edible things in them. I would say that's in the definition, maybe requirements are a) must have leaves and b) must have not leaves. Except trees bear fruit, man, so is a tree a salad? There's no fucking requirement for what "not leaves" is. Conor puts raisins in his salads raisins raisins. That pretty much kicks down the door for anything, there go the floodgates, I think. Maybe I'll put headphones in my salad. I'll have my salad with some flags in it, thank you very much. Put a full grown tree in my salad, put a salad in my salad, if that doesn't tear a hole in whatever dimension salads live in, and yeah then put that interdimensional hole in my salad thanks. I'm so worried about salads, because what does that do to language? What does that mean for communication, what does it say about all of our words, do you hear? Am I coming through to you do these words even mean anything DO MY WORDS MEAN THE SAME THING TO ME AS THEY DO TO YOU what is my message that I'm sending if you tell it back to me correctly, what's to say that those words that sound accurate and correct in my head don't mean something totally different in your universe in your head LIKE I'M SAYING WHAT IF THE COLOR GREEN FOR ME IS YELLOW FOR YOU? What about salad dressing, salad dressing? What are the boundaries of dressing? That it needs to be liquid? It can be white and goopy or just this red thin runny watery vinagre or basically anything, so it just needs to be liquid. Well water, water falls from the sky and really gets all over the lettuce in the trees, so the trees, the trees are definitely salads. I have two tall salads in my backyard. I'm surprised nobody's eaten them, they've been sitting there for a half a century. I guess you could say that salads are supposed to be edible, but man I remember some salads that have been just... I mean, there are people who put raisins in their salads. So I don't know what to think, man, can you really just say salads are intangible undefinable ineffable but very real, like I know it when I see it, like salads are some kind of threshold test for court case pornography? I don't think so, no, no, I don't buy into that game. I've become skeptical as to the existence of salads. I see piles of fruit and leaves, I see piles of meat and leaves, I see piles of raisins and leaves, which okay I guess that goes in the former category, I see piles of bread and peanuts and leaves, I see maple trees, I don't see salads. No, No, I refuse to let the foundations of my language, of my universe, to come crashing down on account of a salad. On account of a nothing, a thing that doesn't exist. So yes, I will have a pile of fruit and leaves. And put some liquid on it. I want it to taste good. Or, or, I guess, to taste alright. I'm on a diet, actually.

Cold Water

--Robert Langellier

Look up to the ceiling and whisper a quick prayer. It’s coming. I know there’s darkness around the corner. There really is nothing like the terror of realization that pain is about to envelop every fiber of the body.

Right now I don’t think it would be too far out of the way to say that I’m the safest and most comfortable that I’ve ever been. The world around me is soothing, and I feel just fine that I’m at my most vulnerable within it. I can feel everything peacefully cascading over me, forcing my eyes closed, covering me in a womblike shelter of comfort. Everything is well.

That’s when I remember how the only certain thing is change. I’m on top of the world, and there’s only one way things can go from here. I know what the future holds, but I’m afraid to face it. So I hold out. I hold on to the warmth I have for as long as possible. I cling desperately to my comfort until it’s not even comfortable anymore. It’s nothing more than a hideout from the world. I’m happy, but I continuously have the nagging remembrance that I’m living a lie.

Eventually I have to face up to the fact that it can’t be like this forever. I’ve buried myself and built myself a veritable tomb. I can feel my skin wrinkling. I have to reenter the real world at some point. I start creating visions of what the future will be like. In my vision I’m standing, naked and freezing, alone. I’m soaked to the bone, and every wisp of air causes me to shudder. My knees want to bend and break. My skin, at the root of every single hair, bubbles up into goosebumps.

I want nothing more than the world to stay this perfect, but the fear of falling has already tainted it. There’s nothing left to do but to let the cold breeze of change sweep over me. It’s coming. I take a deep breath and hesitate briefly while I soak up my last few seconds of comfort and pleasure. My mind finally resolute, I reach down, turn off the shower and open the curtain.