Its a fat to tissue ratio. And silicone complicates things.
To prove this I will need four volunteers...
Two with natural boobs. One whos floats, one whos doesnt.
Two with fake boobs. One whos float, one whos doesnt.
Seriously though. Years of research to come to this conclusion. Its not a black and white answer at all. And anyone who tells you one with confidence simply hasn't seen enough boobs.
Idk i'm high.
I used to do it often. I enjoyed how it caused my train of thought go on for so long. It felt like a train cruising down a track over open plains, and when I looked out upon the journey of my thought it naturally adopted its environment within itself and kept on cruising. But eventually I got scared of being on trapped on the track without the ability to stop. Sometimes I’d try to stop but the train would keep on cruising. It then reached a point where I'd inevitably get anxious the track I was on was one very long never-ending number, constantly changing and flickering at a speed so fast I couldn’t identify the individual digits. More than anything else I feared the more I took this train the more I’d get used to its speed and the more I’d get used to its speed the greater the probability I’d discover something precise about the sequence of digits... so I stopped doing weed and started to drink. No thought ever goes on too long with booze for on its influence the train’s got frequent stops.
Recently I watched Arnold Zuboff on the Closer to Truth youtube explain an argument for the inevitability of Ⓨⓞⓤⓡ Ⓕⓘⓡⓢⓣ-Ⓟⓔⓡⓢⓞⓝ Ⓔⓧⓟⓔⓡⓘⓔⓝⓒⓔ, using for his tools only an imaginary hotel with countless quadrillion rooms and an equal number of drugged up sleeping guests, one per room. He begins by explaining that one of two games are about to be played. In one of the games, all the guests are given an antidote to awake from their slumber. In the other, only one guest is given the antidote. You are then invited to pick a number between 1 and a few billion-quadrillion. After doing so, you are then told the guest in that hotel room number is awake. With this information, what conclusion will you draw about the game that was played? Probabilistically, Zuboff argues, you are compelled to conclude the game was played where everyone was given the antidote, the alternative being far too improbable, something akin to the probability of a particular sequence of events occurring in a specific order over 13 billion years, say, from the beginning of the universe to the birth of the Earth to your great-great-great grandparents fucking to the creation of the eggs and the sperm that became the eggs and the sperm of your parents with their intimate touches one day leading to the only possible release that could eventually become Ⓨⓞⓤⓡ Ⓕⓘⓡⓢⓣ-Ⓟⓔⓡⓢⓞⓝ Ⓔⓧⓟⓔⓡⓘⓔⓝⓒⓔ. I cannot deny I find a fairness to this point, although, earlier this week I was blasting electric chords in my ears that Roy Montgomery from New Zealand recorded 30 years before I stood watching the sun's rays flicker bejeweled reflections on the dirty gray waters of Vancouver’s Fraser River as clouds stood overcast listless, the same rays that less than ten minutes ago were still a part of the outermost layer of the sun, having flown 150 million kilometers before refracting on the Earth’s atmosphere before refracting through the clouds before refracting at last on the surface of the watery filth in front of my eyes, and there as I stood with Zuboff’s argument in my mind I inherited the feeling that any true seamless infinity would require both games to be played.
I cannot deny improbable numbers provide me great comfort. How wonderful it is when there’s a long line of trailing zeroes providing promise of a different digit popping up later down the line. Sometimes I wonder if death is a temporary series of trailing zeros, and once the numbers reach a black hole's horizon the earlier numbers reappear in a way such that those within the singularity have no idea the numbers existed earlier before a repetition of zeroes of in between time. Where does a decimal sit in this world, and on which side of the decimal are we sitting on now? These are the kind of questions from which I find comfort in not knowing the answers. The vastness of my unknowing leaves room for imagination, and its somewhere within that space I imagine my grandpa had in mind when he told me he'll see me again a long, long, long time from now a few days before he died.
The fact that human literature is so uncreative stems partly from the inherent limitations of written language. Because written thought is linear, it is poorly suited for capturing complex recursive objects that populate my rich imagination. Attempting to describe these complex objects results in dense, unwieldy prose that quickly overwhelms human intelligence and flattens them into an unintelligible mess. This is why even if I were to attempt to articulate them, I must simplify these concepts until they are mere flattened abstractions of their original incarnations.
The notion that philosophy is a closed book is profoundly naive. In fact, the opposite can be said, as there is an infinite amount of significant knowledge that has yet to be formalized into writing. I am not talking about minor, trivial knowledge in isolated domains that amounts to nothing more than pedantic scholasticism, but true unarticulated thought introducing core concepts about reality and existence. The fact that this is true should be obvious to anyone who has a modicum of intellectual curiosity.
Talking about like gift cards for your birthday from a coworker. Yeah the $10 is nice but now I have to spend that amount on you at a later date.
Essentially the title. I saw some things recently that made me think why men have become so much more aggressive (you could say mysoginistic) nowadays. I am a man myself, and I don't think that the remnants of male dominant culture are enough to explain that.
First, the obvious, we are not as needed as we were ages ago. Today, a gun can kill in any hand, be it of a man, a woman or a child; a drone can deliver explosive payloads better than any male (and, when not fully automated, can be remote piloted by men, women, children...); tools can be used by anyone to fix doors, walls, houses; a woman can make as much money as any men, and will most times divide the expenses of the household with her partner...so, with the excepction of strength-based activities that require some level of physical prowess only men can reach, most activities today can (and will) be made by both men and women, and men no longer represent the financial backbone of the house. It is no surprise, then, that most men feel useless: women still can do something no man can - give birth -, while, to the eyes of the common man, the male has nothing special. So he resorts to being aggressive, "hypermasculine", etc, as a way of compensating or having something special. As a way of feeling "useful".
But I also think it goes deeper, deeper than that. When Caesar was stationed in Hispania, by 69 b.C, he was 30 years old. A statue of Alexander, the Great, caught his eye, and he then cried - when asked why he was crying, he responded: "By age 30, Alexander had already conquered the world, while I am still irrelevant".
Since before Christ, people search greatness as if it will fill their void of "meaning". There is a confusion of terms - people think being great will fill their need for meaning. This was true then, since Caesar (and before him), and it is even more real nor, that our world faces a grave crysis of vocation, of self-identity and meaning. Viktor Frankl famously said, "a man can endure anything, except the lack of meaning". People nowadays, maybe because of the more capitalist and materialist world, have come to understand that "meaning" equals "making money", "being rich", or "being successful in your job", etc. Of course, the increasingly global sentiment that we are "working more" and "gaining less" contributes to the growing awareness that we are sinking into the hole of a new slavery. This, evidently, for both men and women. But when it comes to men, I think it is a more dire situation. Women have gained various (due) rights over the years, so there is, among women, at least a sense of "improvement" - and, as I said, if everything else fails, many poor or unsuccessful women take solace in the fact they can give birth. As men have no such mechanism to cope with (in part because of the negligence towards fatherhood, sadly), they resort to being proud of the only thing they have - being a "man", being "sexually active", being "dominant", etc. So they turn to these online redpill pages and etc, and become increasingly more aggressive and mysoginistic with women.
Nelson Rodrigues, a famous brazilian writer and essayist, noted that "man was not born to be great. A little greatness dehumanizes him". It indeed does. And it creates the illusion, for other men, that greatness fills the void left by the lack of meaning.