Misfirings, or Cleaning up my scribblings file
Because the novel is fundamentally bourgeious, set up to espouse the value of that class, any novel which purports to present values counter to those is flawed--and any novel that presents fully and accurately the values of, say, the Roman elite, the Carolingian empire, Zulu tribes, Marxism, or the Queché, is not a novel. Such a work is also therefore speculative fiction, because it experiements with the underpinnings of modern "accepted" literature.
Entering a completely virtual world where everything is under the control of the individual could well result in a world where no-one is connected at all, where isolation is the norm, and where the basic definition of human is "one who creates" But is it enough to be the creator? Might we not move on? If so, what happens to the created?
Everything is ritual. Going to the store is a ritual. Going to the movies is a ritual. Everything has to be done in its order, its place, its time. We are creatures of habit, the habit of stereotype and performance.
The second-person singular pronoun is the rhetorical equivalent of grabbing someone by the lapels of their coat and shouting in their face. It's too agressive.
The Debate on Homosexuality continues:
"What does Jesus say?"
"Well in Leviticus--"
"What does Jesus say?"
"Well, St. Paul--"
"What does JESUS say?"
"Well, there's this bit in the beatitudes about adultery--"
"Is that homosexuality?"
"Does he say anything or not?"
"Oh piss off."
"So that's it? I've made my contribution to the gene pool, and now I'm no longer needed? Sort of a 'Wham, bam, thank you m'am' to Mother Earth?"
"I can't belive you just said 'wham, bam, thank you m'am'."
Part of being a teenager means discovering irony, which—unless you're British and doing it properly—most people will drop when they're about twenty-five or so. For the rest of us, there's a quick move into sarcasm—unless you're American, in which case you were doing that already—followed by the development of odd hair, myopic vision corrected by black-framed glasses, and a "pop sensibilty" (whatever that is).
I must be getting old: self-conscious irony is no longer sexy. Actually, most forms of sarcasm aren't that sexy, either, although it is nice to hear banter. I'm not only turning into my parents, I'm turning into my parents circa Red & Kitty Forman. Not that that's a bad thing, right?
A craving for breakfast foods can indicate serious levels of bordennia morbidis, which is a disease akin to the virus that causes lethargy (sarcopsychos princeps). You should see your pop culture specialist or neighborhood quack dealer right away. In the meantime, 4 out of 5 sober doctors recommend lunch; the fifth recommends martinis, and therefore doesn't count.
There should be a statute of limitations on how long after a relationship withers one is still allowed to contact the members of that relationship, e.g. "Oh, well, I'd love to stay and chat, but frankly it's been five years since I saw you last so this friendship's gone off. Sorry." or "After the break-up, the party of the second part is allowed to call the party of the first part until six months do pass."
And finally, for Opa:
From the Oxford Encyclopaedia of Mythical Beasts, 11th edition (2003); Oxford: OUP. Volume 7, page 832:
OUSKEHOBIN (var. oskahoben, owskehobbin, pl. -öben or -obens.) Any variety of the Family Mark-trollar, Genus Michegandiae. The ouskehobin is usually mottled tan or brown, about .5 - 1m tall, with thin, almost fairy-like extremities extending often the length of their bodies, forming their main survival camouflage as saplings or branches; their faces, like most trollar, are knobby and wide, and their bodies vary from squat to twig-thin. They have a knowledge level of three (somewhere between two and eight years old) and generally feed off of roots and berries. As with most trollar, they are usually nocturnal, although some vareities seem to be able to survive in daylight under the forest canopy. Their range, geographically speaking, is no farther south than the Ohio and no farther west than the Twin Cities; although some were sighted in the Ozarks, and there were reports of a few in the forests of Osaka, Japan, these remain unconfirmed.
During the early 20th century, it was belived that these creatures were descendants of the long-thought extinct Ent race; subsequent interviews with Redsage Treeshaker and Ironskin the Fair (Genivive Michelsson, She Spoke to Trees, U Chicago 1973) revealed that the Ents had not produced offspring for seven thousand years, and had no memory of the Ouskehöben race.
Following the genetic survey of Bill O'Woolfe, the troll-ancestor of the Ouskehöben appears to have been brought to the New World with the Icelanders in the early 11th century (Keitel Blackhair, "Voyage to Markland", ch. 39; cf. "The Saga of Hronbiter the Odd", ch 17). Few survived the crossing, and those that did quickly interbred themselves to near-extinction before the arrival of the Cornish and Swedish Knockers (1789-?1820), with whom the weakened markland-trollar crossbred to produce the Ouskehobin. The current population is stable, although rarely seen.
Attempts at preservation, including a captivity-breeding programme outside of Stockholm and an attempted transplant to Finland, have yet proved unsuccessful due to the particular energy of the forests of the Upper Midwest. They cannot survive outside of forests without special care.
Status: Endangered but stable.
Warning: DANGEROUS. Owing to their almost-pixie like nature, Ouskehöben are very mischievous, often to the point of extreme danger. These trollar still posses "iron skin" and will not die easily; their "fun and games" can often be quite deadly.