Part 1, Chapter 1 - Random Analysis, Followed by the makings of an Inspired Arthropod

Perhaps we are all thrown into this life for no purpose at all. Perhaps morals, in which we most certainly (well, the good ones at least) devote all of our lives to, are nothing but a mere misconceptions, a small avoidable error, which we are now paying the price for, in the form of everyday life. That would actually make a lot of sense; moreover, I would actually much prefer it this way. I would hate to think that we were all just puppets, being wielded by a rather unskilled puppeteer, a mediocre god. To be human is to be free-willed, that's what separates us from animals and other sentient beings.

I would dread the thought of being born a monkey, or perhaps an earthworm, the thought makes me shudder. Just imagine, writhing in dirt, felling no pain, enduring ones loathsome life with the only aspiration lying ahead of you being to eat, survive and reproduce.

Perhaps, and only out of mere ridiculous speculation, one earthworm in a billion earthworms would be born of slightly higher intelligence than its brothers and sisters. After wriggling from its sac, and subsequently delving into the dirt, during the process of growing up (that's seventeen earthworm years, which is five human months), it would realize its passion, (somewhat akin to the amateur aspirations of a high school student), let's say, in macroeconomics.

To rephrase, an earthworm being born with a slightly higher intellect that aspires to be a macroeconomist is not a plausible scenario, but for the sake of your amusement, it will be, for the time being.

Of course, there is no "earthworm university" where this little fellow can further peruse his passion, as around him, his own kind are too preoccupied with wriggling in their own feces, not to say that he didn't like wriggling in his own feces, he loved it. My god, the good times he had, and the mud he experienced was much too pleasant a memory to reminisce (assuming for a second that earthworms actually can remember joyous experiences, let alone feel overjoyed). But, something in him felt incomplete, something inside of him was yanking at his inner most conscience and yelling "GO!"

There was only one problem, to pursue this "macroeconomic fascination" that he had, one: he must have the resources to realize such a thing. This would mean wriggling all the way to the plaza, up the seventh floor to were the Borders Bookstore was, and, out of mere inference, scour the whole shop for "Macroeconomics 101" or "So you want to be a Macroeconomist", or perhaps, "Macroeconomics for Dummies".

This was, actually, the simplest part of the whole ordeal. There was, of course, the problem of actually being able to understand the English language; this would require 24 hours of careful revision of English literature, then, perhaps, years later, after having read and analyzed everything from Dickens to Donne, and having a total grasp of the human dialect, he would be able to finally, truly begin his macroeconomic pursuit. He aspired to be a famous economist, maybe even one day taking the place of his hero, Alan Greenspan.

So, with all these recourses at his disposal, years later, he finally mastered the art of macroeconomic ingenuity. There was nothing that slipped his grasp of the subject. Devotion to the art had made him a guru among wise men, a monetary wizard.