狮子求婚了

阿缪斯刘UID：2648217

mua~大姑早:kiss:

阿缪斯刘UID：2648217

不早啦~
我都干了一大通活了
昨晚跟他们扯到12:30才睡
结果就睡了7个小时
搞得我今天头昏脑涨
......
凉秋-人淡如菊 发表于 2009-7-2 09:55

我也睡得挺晚的~变熊猫了~
昨天灌得太疯了，今天好:sleepy:
蔫了~

阿缪斯刘UID：2648217

pat pat大姑~技术文件么？:sleepy:

阿缪斯刘UID：2648217

砖~

阿缪斯刘UID：2648217

分~顶狮子和yymm:sleepy:

阿缪斯刘UID：2648217

pat狮子~我想起一篇散文的内容。找给你看

阿缪斯刘UID：2648217

正面的 反面的
太正面的
我不爱看啊
我已经迷失了
jialiangleo 发表于 2009-7-2 10:13

狮子同学请看前五段，其他人随意

Love is an illness, and has its own set of obsessive thoughts. Behold the poor wretch afflicted with love: one moment strewn upon a sofa, scarcely breathing save for an occasional sigh up-sucked from the deep well of his despair; the next, pacing agitato, his cheek alternately pale and flushed. Is he pricked? What barb, what gnat stings him thus?

At noon he waves away his plate of food. Unloved, he loathes his own body, and refuses it the smallest nourishment. At half-past twelve, he receives a letter. She loves him! And soon he is snout-deep in his dish, voracious as any wolf at entrails. Greeted by a friend, a brother, he makes no discernible reply, but gazes to and fro, unable to recall who it is that salutes him. Distraught, he picks up a magazine, only to stand wondering what it is he is holding. Was he once clever at the guitar? He can no longer play at all. And so it goes.

Ah, Cupid, thou wanton boy. How cruel thy sport!

See how the man of sorrows leans against a wall, one hand shielding his eyes from vertigo, the other gripping his chest to muffle the palpitations there. Let some stray image of his beloved flit across his mind, her toe perhaps, or scarf, and all at once, his chin and brow gleam with idiotic rapture. But wait! Now some trivial slight is recalled, and once again, his face is a mask of anguish, empurpled and carved with deep lines.

Such, such are the joys of love. May Heaven protect us, one and all, from this happiness. One marvels at the single-celled paramecium, who, without the least utterance of distemper, procreates by splitting in two. One can but envy the paramecium his solitary fission.

Love is an illness and, not unlike its sister maladies, hysteria, hypochondriasis, and melancholia, has its own set of obsessive thoughts. In love, the idée fixe that harries the patient every waking hour is not remorse, nor the fear of cancer, nor the dread of death, but that single other person. Every disease has its domain, its locus operandi. If, in madness, it is the brain, in cirrhosis, the liver, and lumbago, the spine, in love it is that web of knobs and filaments known as the autonomic nervous system. How ironic that here, in this all but invisible network, should lie hidden the ultimate carnal mystery. Mischievous Nature, having arranged to incite copulation by assigning opposite hormones to half the human race, and sculpted the curves of the flesh to accommodate the process, now throws over the primitive rite a magic veil, a web of difficulty that is the autonomic nervous system. It is the malfunction, the deficiency of this system that produces the disease of love. Here it fulminates, driving its luckless victims to madness or suicide. How many the lovers that have taken that final tragic step, and were found swinging from the limb of some lonely tree, airing their pathetic rags? The autonomic nervous system! Why not the massive liver? The solid spleen? Or the skin, from which the poison might be drawn with knife or poultice?

Lying upon the front of each of the vertebrae, from the base of the skull to the tip of the coccyx, is a paired chain of tiny nodes, each of which is connected to the spinal cord and to each other. From these nodes, bundles of nerves extend to meet at relay stations scattered in profusion throughout the body. These ganglia are in anatomical touch with their fellows by a system of circuitry complex and various enough to confound into self-destruction a whole race of computers. Here all is chemical rush and wave-to-wave ripple. Here is fear translated for the flesh, and pride and jealousy. Here dwell zeal and ardor. And love is contracted. By microscopic nervelets, the impulses are carried to all the capillaries, hair follicles and sweat glands of the body. The smooth muscle of the intestine, the lachrymal glands, the bladder, and the genitalia are all subject to the bombardment that issues from this vibrating harp of knobs and strings. Innumerable are the orders delivered: Constrict! Dilate! Secrete! Stand erect! It is all very busy, effervescent.

In defense of the autonomic nervous system, it must be said that it is uncrippled by the intellect or the force of the will. Intuition governs here. Here is one’s flesh wholly trustworthy, for it speaks with honesty all the attractions and repulsions of our lives. Consciousness here would be an intruder, justly driven away from the realm of the transcendent. One feels, therefore one is. No opinion but spontaneous feeling prevails. Is tomorrow’s love expected? Yesterday’s recalled? Instantly, the thought is captured by the autonomic nervous system. And alchemy turns wish and dream to ruddy reality. The billion capillaries of the face dilate and fill with blood. You blush. You are prettier. Is love spurned? Again the rippling, the dance of energy, and the bed of capillaries constricts, squeezing the blood from the surface to some more central pool. Now you blanch. The pallor of death is upon you. Icy are your own fingertips. It is the flesh responding to the death of love with its own facsimile.

Imagine that you are in the painful state of unrequited love. You are seated at a restaurant table with your beloved. You reach for the salt; at the same moment, she for the pepper goes. Your fingers accidentally touch cellar-side. There is a sudden instantaneous discharge of the autonomic nervous system, and your hand recoils. It is singed by fire. Now, the capillaries of your cheeks are commanded to dilate. They fill with blood. Its color is visible in your skin. You go from salmon pink to fiery red. “Why, you are blushing,” she says, and smiles cruelly. Even as she speaks, your sweat glands have opened their gates, and you are coated with wetness. You sop. She sees, and raises one eyebrow. Now the sounds of your intestine, those gurgles and gaseous pops called borborygmi, come distinctly to your ears. You press your abdomen to still them. But, she hears! The people at the neighboring tables do, too. All at once, she turns her face to the door. She rises. Suddenly, it is time for her to go. Unhappy lover, you are in the grip of your autonomic nervous system, and by its betrayal you are thus undone.

Despite that love is an incurable disease, yet is there reason for hope. Should the victim survive the acute stages, he may then expect that love will lose much of its virulence, that it will burn itself out, like other self-limiting maladies. In fact, this is becoming more and more the natural history of love, and a good thing at that. Lucky is he in whom love dies, and lust lives on. For he who is tormented by the protracted fevers of chronic undying love awaits but a premature and exhausted death. While lust, which engages not the spirit, serves but to restore the vigor and stimulate the circulation.

Still, one dreams of bringing about a cure. For the discoverer of such, a thousand Nobels would be too paltry a reward. Thus I have engaged the initial hypothesis (call it a hunch) that there is somewhere in the body, under the kneecap perhaps, or between the fourth and fifth toes . . . somewhere . . . a single, as yet unnoticed master gland, the removal of which would render the person so operated upon immune to love. Daily, in my surgery, I hunt this glans amoris, turning over membranes, reaching into dim tunnels, straining all the warm extrusions of the body for some residue that will point the way.

Perhaps I shall not find it in my lifetime. But never, I vow it, shall I cease from these labors, and shall charge those who come after me to carry on the search. Until then, I would agree with my Uncle Frank, who recommends a cold shower and three laps around the block for the immediate relief of the discomforts of love.:sleepy:

阿缪斯刘UID：2648217

:sleepy:

阿缪斯刘UID：2648217

还英语的
我的娘啊
一遍没图的paper我都直接撇了
jialiangleo 发表于 2009-7-2 10:18

看前五段吧~就你现在这心情:lol

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砖

阿缪斯刘UID：2648217

添砖加瓦

阿缪斯刘UID：2648217

顶狮子！！！

阿缪斯刘UID：2648217

呼唤摘要~
jiang08 发表于 2009-7-2 10:19

编辑过了，看紫色部分;P

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我真的病了
jialiangleo 发表于 2009-7-2 10:21

话疗吧~:lol

阿缪斯刘UID：2648217

见证这一激动人心的时刻呀:loveliness: