Cups

Guys, I'm sorry to disappoint you.

While at dinner today, I chanced upon a philosophy. It arose when I was trying to defend my lousy memory. I said I can only remember things from the most recent on - it's like I erase the older ones that I think I don't need and then replace them with the newer information; this would explain why I have the memory of a headless chicken.

For this reason I've not really remembered the birthdays of friends and loved ones.

But then again, there's this section of my mind that I dedicate to remembering things that are very sentimental - the words people say to me, the things I've done, and many other seemingly frivolous emotional junk.

Those I'll never forget. The first words, the first time I felt something, everything people say that left an impression.

So here's my analogy - that our (mostly mine I guess) memory is like a progression of our drinking glasses.

When we are young, we're like those big glasses you can find at IKEA for $2.99 - you use them to hold everything - warm or cold, to the brim or just a sip; we're open to suggestions, and our minds willing take in anything we throw in. That's probably why we still remember the Gummybear song, or the Ghostbusters' Anthem.

And then when the midlife crisis strikes, we're progressively turning into wine glasses - holding less liquid, but whatever we chose to contain is far more refined that the rubbish those young kids pour in their IKEA glasses. To get more wine, we'll have to drink the existing ones - that's me and my replacement theory.

Here's an example of what IKEA glasses hold (explicit language warning).

Lastly, we move on to the fine chinese cups that we see in front of graves. They're elegant, but hold very little water. If you pour too much, everything will spill. Oh, and you'll only use them when you approach the cemetery.

So there you have it - my theory of memory and the drinking glass.