Lapdog.

There's nothing more disturbing than hearing what you want to hear. It's unsettling, for several reasons, not the least of which is the thought that you aren't in power when all other circumstances would suggest that you are. Conversely, if you are in control, then that in and of itself is an enormous burden. Past those two extremes, there must be other possible flaws to an ostensibly perfect moment that you must consider.

Perhaps this is simply the influence of Descartes, but I am inclined to ask "what if my senses are deceiving me?" What's more, what if my mind is interpreting the message incorrectly? When working in retail I was constantly exposed to the question "do you have [product]?" It was a remarkable voyage in semantics, because half the time the customer would be asking about our stock and the other half of the time they'd be looking for my personal experiences with a product.

While this may be perfectly reversible in everyday encounters such as "do you have this", the danger of misinterpretation is proportionate to the intensity of a question. Suppose, by some strange twist of languae and logic, that someone were to misinterpret "will you marry me?" An episode of the medical-sitcom "Scrubs" (of which I am quite fond) shows one such encounter.

A woman is dying and the only way that she may live is to be put on Dialysis. The doctor, Dr. John Dorian, approaches her and asks what her wishes are, to which she replies "I've lived a great life", among other things. Insofar as a doctor is concerned, that response is a red flag that reads "I am ready to die". In his reply of "we are going to make you as comfortable as possible", he is essentially saying that they will try to make her death pleasant, or as pleasant as a death may be. It is only after a chance intervention with another doctor that the patient realizes what their conversations had meant, and expresses that it was not her wish to die, but that she was merely commenting on the quality of her life.

Language reaches a critical point at which the specific and the general intersect, and it is at that critical point that language is most useful.

Thus, I make my eventual, somewhat detached, point. For the last year I have made it my goal to think three words for every one that I speak, or communicate, to be more specific (or general, I love language). This has given me a new perspective on the value of language and the duality that associates itself with certain words. In addition to conditioning me to take care in what I say, the exercise has allowed me to think at an accelerated rate, even for myself.

And now that I look at it, there are people who don't practice this who speak more outwardly or in a position of power. The people who speak to me and tell me what I'd like to hear, did they think about that before saying it, or was it simply an impulsive burst of words? Was it a carefully orchestrated solo, or a simple jam session? Was it a conversation of meaning, or simple banter?

It's only at this point that I realize that overanalysis is a bit of a flaw in my reasoning. It is entirely possible that whoever uttered those words that fit perfectly with my plan was thinking and meant them in the same context I did. Although possible, it is still unlikely, and I've found that trust in humanity, save certain individuals, is seriously misplaced.