What plato forgot

I was resting the cushions of my subtle behind on the feng shuily appropraitte seating arrangements of my brick laden dwelling place. The ambience of my paint drenched room seeped through my nimble body, making its way down the confines of my very being. My primary care giver crossed the threshold to enter into my space. She handed to me a device constructed to clip the hard proteinified shells on the edges of my organ of manipulation and sensation found in the hands of humans and other primates, as the cutting device made an incision at the arc of my protiensfied shell, I was overcome by philosophical ponderings persistently plundering the pool of my passionate psyche, blood pumping through my pulse I proclaimed provocatively, why isn’t it called Punal? Are our protein shells just a metaphor for the absurdity of how we ignorantly Christian names that have too few syllables. Why use a single syballed word like sex, when it can be replaced by popularly passive words like Punal. It’s the same with cutting nails, why call it cutting nails when one can more effectively elevate its syllables by calling it nailcuttingdomaitall. It is a question for the ages, one that will haunt every fiber of my being every time I pamper the epitome of organism that is me.