Tin roofs really make rain a more fun experience. The joy of sitting inside during a thunderstorm is essentially an emotionally voyeuristic experience: the image that your (conveniently dry) subconscious conjures up when you glance* out the window is of a person--happily, not yourself, but you have to have been this person at at least one point to get the image--outside and getting frog-numbingly drenched. Your mind with or without your consent finds all this quite titillating. And manages to get off guilt free on top of it all, since who ever got the empathetic pang-attacks over a hypothetical projection of their subconscious?
The tin roof in this whole equation compounds the "reality" factor. By its intercession your ears, being I hope not grossly impaired, become quickly quite thoroughly convinced, thank you, that some unhappy fictitious sap is getting feline- and canine-d all over his person; meanwhile your unirrigated skin cells are reporting back through the proper tactile-relay channels about how the enemy hasn't yet made contact, all concluding in a good old-fashioned get-together up in the cerebellum, leading to a healthy amount of dopamine going up like firecrackers, a vague sense of satisfaction every time the oculars report via a brief scan* that Wet Fool is still getting it, and ultimately one of those briefly nostalgic hangovers once all the liquid for the party has dried up.
In short, the reason you don't usually want it to stop raining if you're indoors is because as soon as it does, all the guests at your private, VIP-only subconscious party will have to make hurried excuses, flip the deuces, and skip out, probably appropriating some of your head-cavity's last reserves of actually-consumable-type intoxicants.
And if there's anything I've learned in Uganda, it's that tin roof parties are the best parties.
*And it is always a brief glance out the window, probably because your brain can't maintain the fiction about Mr. Unknown getting soaked if you actually pay attention to the fact that there's (usually) no sensory evidence of any such person, and plus if he really exists, well then you have to feel bad for him because he's wetter than the Pacific.
The tin roof in this whole equation compounds the "reality" factor. By its intercession your ears, being I hope not grossly impaired, become quickly quite thoroughly convinced, thank you, that some unhappy fictitious sap is getting feline- and canine-d all over his person; meanwhile your unirrigated skin cells are reporting back through the proper tactile-relay channels about how the enemy hasn't yet made contact, all concluding in a good old-fashioned get-together up in the cerebellum, leading to a healthy amount of dopamine going up like firecrackers, a vague sense of satisfaction every time the oculars report via a brief scan* that Wet Fool is still getting it, and ultimately one of those briefly nostalgic hangovers once all the liquid for the party has dried up.
In short, the reason you don't usually want it to stop raining if you're indoors is because as soon as it does, all the guests at your private, VIP-only subconscious party will have to make hurried excuses, flip the deuces, and skip out, probably appropriating some of your head-cavity's last reserves of actually-consumable-type intoxicants.
And if there's anything I've learned in Uganda, it's that tin roof parties are the best parties.
*And it is always a brief glance out the window, probably because your brain can't maintain the fiction about Mr. Unknown getting soaked if you actually pay attention to the fact that there's (usually) no sensory evidence of any such person, and plus if he really exists, well then you have to feel bad for him because he's wetter than the Pacific.
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