“Just go, Sheldon,” she whispered, wincing. “Win the cake.”
I performed a risk assessment. “There are no binding rules for the distribution of a vanilla bundt cake on a non-special occasion,” I reported. “This will lead to anarchy.” young sheldon s01e22 m4a
The first law of cake was broken when my father cut a slice before the official post-race cooling period. The second law was broken when my mother declared the remaining cake would be the prize for the race winner. A non-caloric incentive. It was brilliant in its cruelty. A simple carbohydrate became a dopamine trap. “Just go, Sheldon,” she whispered, wincing
I still don’t believe in miracles. But I believe my mother believes in me. And for a nine-year-old physicist in Texas, that is a sufficiently stable variable. “This will lead to anarchy
“That’s Modalism, Mother,” I corrected, not breaking my efficient walking pace. “And it was declared heresy in the fourth century. You are trying to convert me back to Christianity with poor thermodynamics.”