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Complex Numbers
Complex Numbers
A complex number is expressed in the standard form a + bi, where a and b are real numbers and i is defined by i^2 = -1 (that is, i is the square root of -1). For example, 3 + 2i is a complex number.
The bi term is often referred to as an imaginary number (though this may be misleading, as it is no more "imaginary" than the symbolic abstractions we know as the "real" numbers). Thus, every complex number has a real part, a, and an imaginary part, bi.
Complex numbers are often represented on a graph known as the "complex plane," where the horizontal axis represents the infinity of real numbers, and the vertical axis represents the infinity of imaginary numbers. Thus, each complex number has a unique representation on the complex plane: some closer to real; others, more imaginary. If a = b, the number is equal parts real and imaginary.
Very simple transformations applied to numbers in the complex plane can lead to fractal structures of enormous intricacy and astonishing beauty.
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It hit me like a crosstown bus.
One minute, I was enjoying a fine, spring day, and the next - boom! - aches all over my body, sweltering fever, the shakes...
They say it's swine flu, and that people have died from it. I don't know - I haven't been to Mexico, or been around anyone who has. They say I shouldn't go out, that I'll recover in seven or eight days.
Seven or eight days? How am I supposed to survive seven days shut in at home? But I guess the alternative is to risk spreading the virus, like mustard on a ham sandwich. Funny, that doesn't make me hungry right now.
Why me, God? Why, out of all the people I know, did it have to be me? Why couldn't it be Marcia, the receptionist who is always giving me the cold eye, as if she knows I'd sexually harass her if I thought I could get away with it? Why not Frank, the dipshit who keeps stealing my parking spot? Hell, why couldn't Mr. Jamison catch this, be stuck at home for a week so he's not looking over everyone's shoulders.
Instead, now I gotta call in and tell Mr. Jamison why I won't be at work for a week.
Swine flu.
They say men can't get mad cow disease, because men are pigs. Well, here we go. Fucking oink.
You know what? To hell with it. I'm going in anyway. I will not suffer alone. I'm going to rub my hands all over Marcia's telephone when she's not looking (all the while pretending it's her breast), blow my nose and wipe it on Frank's Porsche's door handle, and then all over the doorknob to the executive washroom just to get Mr. Jamison.
That's right. If I'm going down, I'm taking all of them with me. Bastards.
But first, I need to go root for some truffles. |
© Copyright 2025 Robert Waltz (UN: cathartes02 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved. Robert Waltz has granted InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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