Rectangles

You pat yourself down before you leave-wallet, key fob, phone. You have all your pocket rectangles. The rectangle is utilitarian, to be sure, and the least sexy of all shapes. Rectangles are boxes containing brown, square-toed shoes to make boring men more boring, their feet more rectangular. Rectangles are cubicles, mid-sized sedans, Excel spreadsheets, cinder blocks, paper money, the phone books that appear on your porchtangle to be fed to your recyclingtangle. Topographical maps commit the sin of rendering mountain ranges-MOUNTAIN RANGES!-as rectangles, their purple mountain majesty wider than tall, cornered by 90 predictable degrees. Even the Golden Rectangle of the Parthenon is only hip because of spirals and the Fibonacci Sequence. If it weren’t playacting as circles (and therefore asscheeks-trust me, the ancient Greeks were all about ass), the Parthenon would just be another fucking fat fucking square. You walk through your rectangle door into your pickup truck and drive down the road alongside other sad rectangles and their sad people. You encounter more as your go along; traffic lights, handi-vans, convenience stores. Rectangle, rectangle, rectangle. You see a box in the road. It’s possible the box is full of kittens. You speed up and run it over. At the very least you’ll create something new and asymmetrical, and though you’re not overtaken by feline bloodlust, you’ll destroy a rectangle.

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