"I know that I am mortal by nature, and ephemeral; but when I trace at my pleasure the windings to and fro of the heavenly bodies I no longer touch the earth with my feet: I stand in the presence of Zeus himself and take my fill of ambrosia"

— Ptolemy


A friend of mine posted this a few months ago and its bullshitting genius.

The following is supposedly an actual question given on a University of Washington chemistry mid-term. The answer by one student was so “profound” that the professor shared it with colleagues, via the Internet, which is, of course, why we now have the pleasure of enjoying it as well.
Bonus Question: Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or endothermic (absorbs heat)?
Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle’s Law (gas cools when it expands and heats when it is compressed) or some variant.
One student, however, wrote the following:
First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So we need to know the rate at which souls are moving into Hell and the rate at which they are leaving. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving.

As for how many souls are entering Hell, let’s look at the different Religions that exist in the world today. Most of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there is more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell.
With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially. Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle’s Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand proportionately as souls are added.
This gives two possibilities:
1. If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose.
2. If Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over.
So which is it?
If we accept the postulate given to me by Teresa during my Freshman year that, “it will be a cold day in Hell before I go out with you”, and take into account the fact that I went out with her last night, then number 2 must be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic and has already frozen over.
The corollary of this theory is that since Hell has frozen over, it follows that it is not accepting any more souls and is therefore, extinct … leaving only Heaven, thereby proving the existence of a divine being which explains why, last night, Teresa kept shouting “Oh my God.”


To celebrate national poetry day and Wordjar’s 20,000 eBook reads we are holding a competition. We want all applicants to submit a free write Haiku on any topic they wish by 23:59 on October 11th 2012. The most creative and intriguing Haiku will win. The winner of this competition will get the…

A Poets Soul

Inside a poet’s soul, lies the poet’s sole purpose:

An internal verbal dialogue…

Comprising argumentative articulations;

One to fear no judgement yet to cast down judgements.

To provide fitting testimony to each and every one of my individual prejudices.

Prejudice against those who chastise my command of words.

Prejudice against those who have ever had the last word in an argument.

Idle rebukes!

Comebacks that take an eternity to perfect.

And forever need refinement!

I write about battling both sides of myself,

But as time passes, which is right between the fighting…

Words or deeds?

Mind and body forming a truce and working to a common goal, expression.

I write about being irate… And

I reign over the page with poetic justice.

I fear no scrutiny.

I am master of self and my words prove to be the court jesters.

Humouring the King,


A complex ruler; from which I draw the borders of my land.

Segment my articulate reality into regimented lines.

Battalions of verse, battling for equal voice.

Where they are all both peasants and gentry.

With equal footing and a firm foundation for success!

The pleasantries are disposed with.

I serve up my raw emotions, and beg you to tuck in!

Wishing for a humble diner.

Yet the wistful wish for my dish is that everyone stomachs my words,

Yet for no one to truly understand them.

If they understand me, then I have become too comfortable within the kitchen.

I do not seek a recipe for success!

And so I write about standing out.

I believe I am different from others.

And I, with this belief, I stand tall.

Of course I write about ‘I’ and somewhat,

Other less important capital letters.

The majestic majuscule stamping out my often downtrodden notions.

Every capital is carefully measured, I write because YOU KNOW NOT THE WORTH OF WORDS.

They say a picture portrays a thousand words…

I pose within my prose.

For I wish to capture snapshots of my mind:

Encapsulating a moments spirit.

My pens ink forms an ocean of feelings.

Where my ego is waived and borne afloat far from my grasp. 


When I am done, from my lofty seat of judgement,

The poets soul gazes upon an extended autograph.

As I write, I sign my life away to the paper.

Entrusting it to the hands of the reader.

A scripted contract; outlining my sincerity.

Yet I am not afraid, because no words can encapsulate my being.

The irony is I am all too willing to try and try again.

Knowing that those who I refine for are none the wiser,

So how do I define ‘a poet’s soul?’

A poet’s soul = 50% your own words and 50% others imagination…

Everything that is written, but more importantly…

The words that were left out.

Words by AR.

Tags: My writing

The thief called time…

My watch is both defendant and judge?

It invades my extremities with its touch of cold steel,

Latching onto my wrists like inescapable handcuffs…

Time chisels away at my physical entity!

Minutes bluntly hacking while seconds gently whittle…

Hands spinning the barrel of life’s revolver.



Idle minds playing Russian roulette to pass the time.



The ticking and the tocking melding into silence.

Miniscule background noise and I begin to take no notice…

An acidic chemistry, seamlessly constituting progress.

One man’s measure of time is as valuable as another’s;

However perhaps the first got the exchange rate wrong…

If a minute is really an hour then how was your lunch break?

If an hour is a day then what targets have you achieved?

If a day is a week then how many hours have you worked?

If a week is a month then have you been paid enough to pay your rent?

If a month is a year then have you earnt a promotion?

What is your resolution!


Work to your heart’s content, not to your minds lament!

Remove a watch and see how you appreciate time when you do not have any…

What time is it anyway?

Words by AR.

Tags: My writing


— Canibus - Dread Alert Pt. 2

The English don’t like to say ‘no.’


"@SizeNine90: People who say ‘arks’ instead of ‘ask’ and ‘mines’ instead of ‘mine’ … lock yourself in a cupboard until you learn English."


Can I ask if the arks that are mine have mines or not? Then if I ask to swap, ‘ask’ with ‘arks’ do the literary potholes I have navigated become mine or are they mines? But the mines in arks are not mine, nor did I ask. Furthermore I didn’t ask for Mine’s arks to be mine. However, then if you did ask looking at arks if mine mines were there, I’d say you needed to use a possessive adjective instead of pronoun. And fall into denial. Then you would ask why I am floating upon the Nile with arks whilst in denial about my mine of mines. To which I would reply I’m in denial in the Nile because you did not let me ask whether the arks that are mine have mines or not. And deemed my position of denial, though I may be in the Nile, much safer than the arks which are mine and may be containing mines that I did not ask Mine for. And so you need not read past the first question if you answered ‘no.’ In which case I am at home.

Words by AR.

Tags: My writing

You lose a pen?

You lose a pen = no pen. No pen = no notes. No notes = no study. No study = fail. Fail = no diploma. No diploma = no job. No job = no money. No money = no food. No food = skin and bone. Skin and bone = ugly. Ugly = no love. No love = no marriage. No marriage = no kids. No kids = alone. Alone = depression. Depression = disease. Disease = death. Moral of the story, don’t lose your pen or you will die.

Words by @yournotprestige.

Tags: My writing

First date. Location: love!

Her face… compliments

Her race… inconsequential

The location… existential

Throughout time…

Her mind… simple

Her attitude… sinful

Her outlook… taboo

Unbiased pride…

Her smile… dimples

Her eyes… twinkle

Her lips… mingle

With mine…

Her breathing… staccato

She exhibits… bravado

Her skill… Aficionado

I whisper one more time…

“Let’s make every time a first date.”

Words by AR.

Tags: my writing

These eyes?

These eyes that I see through are not the eyes that you see through.

Therefore, how can we ever hope to see eye to eye?

But if we stand by side and compare our lives, much of the struggle and strife…

Can be attributed to misplaced pride!

Brothers in arms, hands resting on each others shoulders… Acting as a guide…

Fingers frostbitten from numerous cold shoulders,

An eye for an eye mentality causing mental divides.

A handshake can be the bridge that spans two heartbeats in time!

You say you don’t need another ‘friend’ but who’s truly counting this time?

Is it you or I? Was it two or thrice…

Times that my complacency impacted upon your life…

But like I said: “who’s truly counting this time?”

More importantly, who’s side of the story counts this time?

Words by AR.

Tags: my writing




I like strings. What’s “no strings attached”? I am a string. You’re a string. I like strings and knots and bows.
Pretty big bows with long tails. And teeny weeny ones with perky loops.
And knots. Firm. Stuck. Thick. Thin. The kind that make you cuss and say fxck it you’ll learn to live with it….

(Source: )





Don’t think and write

I am certain my thoughts lack restraint,

Disobedient, rowdy passengers in the vehicle of the body.

Mature enough to be seated at the forefront,

Yet exhibiting with youthful ignorance a disdain for the seatbelts;

And so they dangle in my peripherals unused and forlorn.


My thoughts hurtle through the windshield of my eyes and are catapulted into the harsh light of the world.

I am left a wreck, hazard lights flashing reflecting off my ideas’ reflection,

Leaking like explosive petrol from my engine!

Anger effortlessly personified by the smoke trailing from my bonnet…

Thoughts spilt like blood on the concrete,

Even now colour draining from the remains as the last vestiges of life slip away.

And I lay that idea to rest.

Words by AR.

Tags: my writing