Sometimes it’s a mistake to read statistics. Try this one on for size: My city is the sixth largest in my state, but its crime rate is twice that of our state’s largest city. (Re-read that if you need to, but I won’t reduce my word count to accommodate you.) I’m terrible at math, but this sounds like my burb has twelve times as many BadBoyz as the nearby metropolis. What is this, Gotham City? Holy Nunchucks, Batman![*calms down*] No, I refuse to be ruled by statistics. (Or is that slide ruled?) My life is complicated enough without introducing some master plan to controvert a neighborhood of ne’er-do-wells.
I don’t have time for that. My mornings are already booked up with over-analyzing the previous day: “It was so nice having so-and-so over for dinner. But I think I talked too much again. And that joke about fireflies. I’m so bad! Oh Dear, I hope they aren’t firefly-huggers!” Then there’s a good go-round of grumbling: “Who’s idea was it to use the real dishes last night? … Oh yeah; mine.” After that I lose quite a bit of my morning planning the day: “Why do I have such a hard time deciding which to wash first, lights or darks?” [Okay, for any newbies out there, this paragraph is parody. While yes, I do every single one of these things, they really only use up about a half hour total.]
All told, I don’t think its profitable to modify our lives too much based on some number published on the internet. Statistics don’t lie, but the truths they tell are sometimes not relevant to our little corner of the community—and they can actually lead to self-fulfilled prophecy. ….Now. Where did I stash those nunchucks?