NO, but they are held together in logical space, or at least in the space in my oven with some nonhydrogenated vegan buttery spread.
Two things: I bumbled my way through a presentation on Wittgenstein’s Tractatus today, in front of, oh I don’t know, a bunch of analytic philosophers a WHOLE SHITLOAD SMARTER than I am about Wittgenstein at least (I may have them cornered on Faust allusions). And in my highly sophisticated mathematical calculations I would say I was only 2/3 retarded and actually 1/3 coherent, which is let’s face it 1/3 more than anyone was expecting, even me, even after 50 hours of work on it because guess what? It’s the fucking Tractatus, it fells idiots all the time but it has felled many a legitimate philosopher much smarter than I am.
Two: I fucking hate Valentine’s Day for so many damn reasons, not least of which is all the ads for diamond jewelry on the televisual machine, as if to say, "Hey men! Nothing will be sufficient in making your self-loathing but also weirdly demanding woman-friend understand that you love here even though you are emotionally withdrawn and probably banging your secretary like the SUFFERING OF AFRICAN PEOPLE!" Fucking diamonds. Everything about a diamond is reprehensible. The way they’re gotten, the way they’re paraded around on the fingers of women as if to display EXACTLY the money/woman-chattel relation to everyone else. Not that my sister-in-law’s ring is not awesome but in my brother’s defense, it is a synthetic bloodless diamond AND he could actually afford it with his own money he actually has, instead of going into years of debt just so Lani can walk around like chattel (which she is most certainly NOT, if anything, my brother is the chattel in the relationship, deservedly so, ha ha). Anyway, I hate Valentine’s Day A LOT and I am not even bitter because I don’t have a boyfriend–I am bitter because I am nostalgic for 4th grade when Valentine’s Day actually meant something because it was the only day of the year you could actually be sincere about the person you "liked" by giving them Valentines just like you gave everyone else but maybe an extra-cool one where Fat Albert looks particularly charming and with a few extra candy hearts in it, maybe more big candy hearts than little candy hearts. It was this unbridled and mysterious joy–you could sit there staring at the card from your paramour you had to pretend to hate for the rest of the year and know IN YOUR HEART that "Happy Valentines Day rebeka from RYan" actually MEANT "I cannot possibly contain my unspoken but very real love for you." Now it’s all about demands and expectations and the suffering of peoples on other continents and I call bullshit! Double bullshit! Triple bullshit! Though if some flowers showed up on my doorstep I’d probably blush. Though they would probably be from my mom.