I just finished my latest trashy romance, the third in a trilogy and it was so good it left me yearning for true love. Irritated, I paced around the apartment and grumbled about how much I hate everything. Then, as luck would have it, I stumbled across a book that I have with me purely by accident; a book I loaned to a friend two years ago and he happened to remember to give it back to me, Stephen Hawking's The Theory of Everything. Here, I thought, was the perfect solution to stupid trashy romances and their manipulating you into wanting true love.

As I was reading just the very beginning of it I began to remember how much I love Stephen Hawking and, furthermore, how much fun it is to contemplate the mysteries of the universe. More than that, though, I thought back on my childhood and how much easier it was to accept certain ideas, like infinity. When I was a wee little girl someone, probably my dad, told me that the universe was everything. It was simple and it made sense. I thought to myself, okay--I can accept that. Then, probably around high school, maybe earlier, it was brought up that the universe was expanding. This here was a problem. If the universe was everything it couldn't expand, seeing how it was, well, everything. And so my tumultuous relationship with infinity, space, and time began.

I tried to read A Brief History of Time in high school and that didn't work out so well, but a while after graduating college I got through it and, more than that, enjoyed it. I'm a bit of an armchair theoretical physicist--I hate the math and refuse to learn how to do it myself, but I love the theories and thinking about them. This is what happens when English majors read Hawking and Greene. I started to read about black holes and found them incredibly exciting when suddenly I realized I had hit upon a snag; I have an irrational fear of falling into a black hole. As irrational fears go I think that's a pretty good one.

So now, my contemplations of the universe are hampered by a couple of things: 1) irrational fear of falling into a black hole 2) inability to fully comprehend the size of the universe since it isn't infinity 3) annoyance with the relationship between space, time, and gravity.

I bring all this up as a background to remark on the humor of my young mind's willingness to accept and even, to some degree, understand infinity. When the universe was everything I never thought twice about it--it was everything. But when the universe stopped being everything and just became really, really big well, that was another matter entirely. And I think that's something. I suppose there are many examples of a child's mind willing to accept concepts adults have trouble with from religion to physics, but reading this particular book right now sparked my particular memory and made me want to muse about it.

There is certainly the point that children see things more simply and so conceive of a concept in terms small enough to understand; adults try to grasp all the ins and outs as it were. But thinking on human nature and our self-centeredness, I wonder if part of it isn't also an adult's need to feel like s/he matters. Descartes said, "I think, therefore, I am" and whole philosophies have worked to deal with that. What's more, when you start to conceive the universe as really, really big and, more importantly, finite, you begin to realize how little you matter in the grand scheme of things. I matter to me, obviously, and we all matter to each other (people that know each other I mean) but long after we're dead the universe keeps on kicking until one day it stops regardless of our continued existence or not. That's a pretty crazy concept to contemplate.

I should also point out that I've been in houses with cable the last few days and so have watched The History Channel and The Discovery Channel; there was a very nice program on the evolution of the Earth yesterday.

Anyway, I know physicists are still fighting over the existence of a "theory of everything" but it occurs to me that the universe functions just fine in conjunction with itself. That says to me that there has to be a theory of everything, we just may not be able to comprehend it yet. I mean, how can there not be? But, on the flip side, there isn't necessarily a theory that can be applied to every human being because we're such capricious characters and then, if there isn't a theory of everything for the universe doesn't that raise an interesting question about the nature of its existence? Not necessarily talking sentience here, but perhaps a little chaos theory.

I have no greater point with all of this, but musing over my irrational fear of falling into a black hole and suffering a horrible, painful death stretched out over infinity served its purpose marvelously in no longer wishing I had true love. See? Science really does solve everything.

I'm sitting in the Chicago O'Hare airport, waiting for my delayed flight. A middle-aged man somewhere between his mid-forties and early fifties walks by wearing a hooded, zip up sweatshirt. On the back in large, bright, pink lettering is:

Love Me
Hate Me
Fuck Me

I'm in a bit of a quandary over this. On the one hand I don't believe in censorship--I would never want there to be a law or any fine imposed on people for their speech. However, I do believe (very strongly) in manners and taste. There are several adolescent girls hanging out in our concourse alone, not to mention all the children he walked by to get here. My question is this: Is this sweatshirt really necessary sir? Really? What is it you are saying that demands to be said across Chicago International Airport in such a way?

I want to take a break and let you all know I know how much I sound like my mother right now.

But here's the thing; I've always found shirts with curse words written on them tacky. I'm obviously not one who is afraid to curse, nor do I think it makes a moral or ethical difference to say freak instead of fuck if the meaning behind it is the same. Language carries the meaning you attach to it and all that. But, knowing all of these things, there is also the knowledge that language you put into the world--through speech, shirts, or what have you--gains half its meaning from what those listening or reading attach to it. So, what is it about this guys sweatshirt that demands it be said in public in this way?

At least if it were a political statement I could understand. If it were some sort of obvious personal statement that seemed fairly necessary to his existence in this world as a person I would also understand.. And, AND! What the hell is his sweatshirt saying anyway? I mean, it's bad enough that I find it rude and inappropriate in the airport context, but what is being said here? No matter how you feel about him sleep with him? Love me, hate me, but don't subject me to inane attempts at individuality.

Okay...I have to interrupt this rant to explain something very important I've discovered. This man is in Ted Nugent's band. In fact, Ted Nugent is flying on the puddle-jumper airplane with me out of Chicago. Wow. I mean, I don't particularly like Ted Nugent, but it's still really freaking cool (I think freaking works better in this context don't you?) that I'm sharing a plane with him and his band. Who knew?

Cut to later when we've landed and are finally at our destination. It was a thoroughly annoying flight complete with delays, gate changes, and waiting on the tarmac for take off for almost an hour . Then, because of all the delays instead of landing before the thunderstorm we flew through it. That means I almost died with Ted Nugent too. I'm not nearly as excited about that. Finally, I had to sit behind sweatshirt man while he chatted up the pretty, young girl next to him--this guy is an old rockstar with hair that's thinning still worn long and the aforementioned writing on the back of his clothing. It was entirely possible I was going to do a lot more than hate him before this flight was over.

Thankfully we landed, though, and as my friend and I walked out the airport I looked behind to make sure the coast was clear and said quite loudly, "I just flew with Ted Nugent! That's so cool!" I then turned around. Ted Nugent was on his cell phone ten feet ahead giving me the eye as he continued his conversation. Sometimes I'm so cool even I don't know how I resist me. On the plus side, he's crazy conservative so I don't have to feel that bad that I didn't wow him with my coolness.

I flew with Ted Nugent. That's so cool.

Allow me to share the story of the crazy old people in Rhode Island. Apparently, when one grows old in this state, one also becomes bitter, mean, and sometimes stupid. Let's begin with example A, codename: Grandma.

We were at Journey to the Center of the Earth: 3D (yeah, 3D--it was awesome) and Grandma and her grandson sit down a few seats away from us. As the movie begins and plays it becomes very apparent, very early on, that Grandma's a talker. You know the type; the type that talks at movies, loudly enough to annoy, but quietly enough that not everyone in the theatre hears it. Furthermore, she talks pretty much through the whole thing. Apparently, so I was told as I wasn't sitting next to her, Grandma did something more stupendous than not turn off her cell phone. She missed the phone call, checked her voice mail, and then called the person back to discuss the missed phone call. This is the sort of talker Grandma is. At one point I thought my friend was going to kick some Granny butt, but she restrained herself like a champ. Frankly, though, I would have helped her. Granny was in very serious danger of going down.

Next there was example B, codename: Grumpy.

There we sat in the theatre watching Mama Mia! (I watch a lot of movies on vacation) and old people start to pile in all around us. Now, when I say pile in I mean exactly that. The theatre filled up, but before that happened an old couple sat in front and to the left of us, while another old couple walked by making myself and another old lady move our purses since they simply had to sit in the two empty seats between us instead of anywhere else in the theatre--but that's another story. Grumpy gave me and my friend the eye as he sat down and eyed my feet, perched on the bar in front of me warily. I eyed back since I was there first, I didn't have my feet on the back of a seat and he was choosing to sit next to my obviously perched feet in a still very empty theatre. As far as I was concerned he could eat me.

My mother raised me with manners, however, so I was determined not to put my feet anywhere that might ruin his movie experience, but as the movie got going and the music picked up I sort of lost myself in the moment. My foot is now on my knee as my legs are crossed, far, far away from him, but he turns around and starts to say something to me. After a minute I realize he's talking to me and it sounds something like "you kicked me." I'm horribly embarrassed both because I had no memory or recollection of my foot connecting with his head and he's speaking loudly. I think perhaps he's worried I will kick him--a big difference I'm sure you'll agree. So I respond "Oh, I did kick you?" The whole encounter has me thrown for a loop. But then he did something that never works out well for me. He told me what to do.

"Put your foot down," he orders me. I really, really, really...really don't take well to being told what to do. It's a flaw. I need to work on it. I know this. But right now we're at a movie theatre, Grumpy just ordered me around before I even understood what was going on enough to apologize, and there was no more possibility of a peaceful resolution. I responded simply and firmly, "I won't kick you again." He told me to put my foot down again, I told him I wouldn't kick him again. He turned around in a huff and I seriously considered kicking his head very hard, very many times. Furthermore, the words he said at the beginning that I missed (which I think was due to fate) were "Hey lady! You kicked me." All I say to that is really? Hey lady? What are you twenty and is this 1954? If the answer to either of those questions is no OR you were raised with an iota of proper behavior I say perhaps you should never hey lady someone unless you want them to kick you in the head on purpose. The universe protected Grumpy from my dangerously flip-flop clad foot teaching him how to properly inform someone of their obvious mistake in a movie theatre. I know; I kicked him (allegedly). But he was assy. I reserve the right to want to kick him.

Meanwhile, the old lady and her husband who decided they absolutely had to have the two empty seats between me and the other group are singing along to the songs, off-key of course, the lady behind us can't figure out how to shut her phone off, the power goes out due to horrendous thunderstorms, and watersprout oddly enough, we lose sound at the romantic and emotional climax of the movie, and then same lady--whom my friend thought was mentally disabled--begins to clap sort of in time when the sound comes back on and the final song kicks in. All-in-all it was a good movie, but really exhausting to watch.

So after all of this I've come to two conclusions: 1) old people in Rhode Island are insane and 2) old, handicapped, or dying from a disease I reserve the right to kick you in the head--on purpose this time--if you talk during a movie.

This has been a public service announcement.

I was totally going to write about Jem and the Holograms because they are truly, truly, truly outrageous, but I feel it is more important, nay, imperative, that I inform the masses of an imminent world take over--by seagulls.

This is going to come as a surprise to some of you. After all, it wasn't too long ago that world take over seemed afoot due to the penguins and with the influx of pro-penguin propaganda in the last five years I felt the penguin world take over would happen any moment, but today I saw something that chilled me to the bone. Today I saw something so horrible, so frightening, that I'm not sure it can be captured in the written word. Today I saw the truth. Today I came face to face with the seagulls.

It was a day that started much like any other. I woke up; I drank my coffee. I watched cartoons (hence the forthcoming discussion about Jem) and eventually decided upon going to the beach. I'm visiting the east coast you see and it seemed a shame to waste a beautiful afternoon doing anything other than reading on the beach. So we packed up, we bought some fig newtons, some cheez its, some water, and headed to the beach.

The water was beautiful, the waves were crashing, and I blissfully trounced off into the ocean gasping only a little at the chill temperature. Despite the complaints of California that the Pacific is cold the northern Atlantic is much, much colder.

But I was not to be deterred! Soon my friend had joined me and we were happily bouncing about in the growing waves, cold but happy. And then, as is so often the case in these stories, tragedy struck. A moment of sweet innocence was ruined thoughtlessly, heartlessly, by the evil that roams this earth. The seagulls had struck.

My friend asked me if the giant mass of seagulls were swarming around our blanket. They were. She then asked if they could get into our sealed, bagged food. They could. Squinting against the sun that only moments ago had brought me such joy I stepped towards the shore and saw what I thought looked like a fig newton bag being dragged across the beach, caught between the bills of three different seagulls.

I took off, fueled by rage and raced back to the shore; the waves pounded me from behind and the current pulled at my feet, but I wouldn't be slowed. Sloshing without any thought but saving my delicious fruit and cake I ran up on the beach seeing clearly now that it was my fig newton bag the seagulls were molesting and, what's more, they weren't scattering as I raced towards them. I also saw, positioned not twenty feet from our blanket two older gentlemen casually half-sleeping in their beach chairs watching the seagulls rape and pillage our blanket and food with nary a half-cocked eyebrow let alone a minor Shoo! to chase them off. You would think the peoples of the world could be united against this heinous yellow billed force, but no, our ranks are divided. How do we stand a chance when there are those among us who would stand by while innocent fig newtons are plundered not ten feet away?

Thankfully we saved half the bag. One row was gone, but my adrenaline fueled race back to the shore saved the other row. But now the seagulls had got a taste. And they liked it. We laid down on our blanket, books in hand ready to protect our food and blanket. The seagulls formed a perimeter around us, landing approximately ten feet away on all sides. Their leader, an old grizzled fellow with brown feathers amid his white stood in the middle. He had a habit of keeping his head down so that he seemed thicker, more menacing then the others. As I read my book he would inch closer, one step at a time, step, step towards the rescued newtons.

I looked up and we made eye contact--it was like looking into the eyes of death. He wasn't frightened of me. Not even after I explained things to him. I'm bigger, I told him, I'll eat you. He didn't care. Looking down I assessed the size of my trashy romance and decided it would make a pretty good club. Don't make me beat you with Nora Roberts, I threatened him again. This seemed to throw him a little bit. He took a step back. Not to be thwarted, however, he started to move forward again. I half sat up, ready to do battle; I'd take on the whole squadron if I had to!

But then fate intervened. A new mark, an easier mark had been sighted by the scouts. The rest of the squad took off, squawking and flapping their way down the beach. But the commander stayed. His beady black eyes bored into my brown ones. Nora Roberts I threatened again. He didn't say anything, but I knew if he had a mouth instead of his grotesque beak he would have said, I'm not scared. With one last look he let out a squawk and flew after his squad. And so our stand-off ended.

The seagulls have no respect for human life, nor any decent fear of what we're willing to do to them. It's because of this I feel they may supplant the penguins in the race for world domination. If you see a movie promoting cute seagulls don't believe it; don't believe it for a minute. They'll wait till your gone...and then they'll steal your fig newtons. Fight for you lives people. Fight for your freedom.

I just came home from a discussion about love. We were all very aware of the foolishness such a discussion contains by its very nature, but this is a topic that has been on my mind quite a bit lately. I know people often muse amongst themselves concerning the nature of "the one," how do I know who it is? How do I know if this particular person is really it, etc, but I found myself asking the question, how do I know if I'm in love?

This question in turn made me ask myself, how do I define love? Can it be defined? Is love purely emotion and as such, does it defy the naming process of being put into language? I acknowledge all the poetry, music, art, and teenage love notes that have already attempted this, but I don't think their existence answers my question. After all, even with all of these things, we all still question the concept of love on a porch at four o'clock in the morning.

The problem, a commonly accepted one amongst most self-aware, reasonably intelligent people is that there is no "happily ever after." The "I love yous," heartfelt as they may be, are always followed by the morning after--bad breath, unfortunate bed head, and maybe a grumpy demeanor. The days after that are followed by fights, food poisoning, the flu, and any number of other situations and ailments not conducive to tender emotions. And so people deal with this any number of ways; the one I hear most often is that everyone falls in and out of love constantly, hanging on until they fall back in love with the person they've committed to. I don't deny that this is the case for many people, but I question if that is real love or, more importantly, if that is what I want.

Imagine, for a minute, that full disclosure is possible. Imagine that you could be aware of those times your partner isn't in love with you. What would that be like? Knowing that fights, irritation, and disappointment are fairly inevitable, do I want to be with someone that, at times, doesn't actually love me? Is it possible to avoid? To some degree I'm hopelessly naive in this area as I haven't had a serious, long term relationship. Friendships, but not romantic involvements where you see someone on a daily basis. I acknowledge this even as I continue to write as if I know what I'm talking about anyway.

I think love for me is defined the same way I define the one. Specifically, that it isn't an end. What I mean by that is that there is no happily ever after. It doesn't ever stop. Being in love doesn't cease the roller-coaster of emotion anymore than finding the person I want to spend the rest of my life with means they were the only person of all the people in the world I could have felt that way about, and being with them guarantees happiness. If it's an ongoing process, something that has to be worked on every day, a constant evolution that never ceases to need my attention, even if it is easier some days than others, then not only does it become a whole lot less romantic, it also becomes a whole lot more scary. It means that happiness is not guaranteed and my happiness is not assured. It means that all the annoyances I have regarding my lack of a relationship don't go away, but are only replaced with new ones. That idea is absolutely opposite what society has formed and defined as "love."

More importantly, though, it means that entering into any sort of romantic relationship carries significantly more weight than it did before. It means I can't just meet someone, work it out, and then sit back and enjoy the ride. It means that being in love requires an active, conscious role from me every day. That's exhausting to ponder. The thrill of love is that it is supposed to be an end; once you love and someone loves you, you're supposed to be generally happy and content. The love is supposed to be the end.

But I don't think it is. And, I think it is knowledge of this, conscious or not, that oftentimes causes fear of marriage or the idea of "the old ball and chain" as it were. When we're not blissfully happy, all the time, we assume it isn't love or that there's something wrong with us, or whatever. We never question if this "love" we have isn't actually love, but only what we were taught to believe is love. This is also why I think so many single, divorced, and/or cynical people doubt other people's love. They see couples that are working on loving each other every day and see only that it is different than what love is supposed to be, not the possibility that that is actually what love is. The two seem irreconcilable.

But how many people have the maturity, self awareness, or mental fortitude to be conscious of their own evolution, needs, and feelings every day, let alone someone else's? That's exhausting--even just to think about. There's nothing sexy, or spontaneous, or fun about that. That's too much like real life, like an obligation.

But what if that isn't the case? Ignorance is definitely bliss, but what if the cost of knowledge, high though it may be is worth it? What if the added pain and inconvenience brings with it greater happiness and self fulfillment? I like my definition of love--I find it more real, inconvenient though it may be.

But it still doesn't answer the question how do I know if I'm in love or that someone is even worth the pain of true love? But that's something to ponder some other morning at four o'clock on the porch.

I think it’s time I shared my thoughts on George Lucas. I was reading an article on msn about the biggest winners and losers of the summer and (not unexpectedly) they labeled Indiana Jones a loser (the latest one). What I love about this article, and the people that wrote in to argue, is that critics predicted exactly as both Lucas and Spielberg said they would, but acted as if their reactions were a surprise. The majority of movie-goers accepted the change in tone and enjoyed the movie. Both the article and the people that replied represent these two extremes beautifully.

But this got me thinking, I’ve spent a lot of time defending Episode 3 and qualifying Episodes 1 & 2, but I’ve never done so here (I don’t think). I think it’s time.

First let’s get the obvious weakness out of the way so we can all be on the same page:

1. George Lucas, bless his heart, had a hard-on for special effects. They were overused in the first two movies and he forgot to keep it simple. It’s understandable when one considers that he’s spent his life making movies that weren’t quite capable of looking like he imagined, but still a poor choice artistically.

2. We could have forgiven the abuse of special effects if the writing had been better. The dialogue was just plain painful in places and while I personally think there were reasons for that at times, it doesn’t change the need for a little revision.

These were the major complaints made at the time of the release and, I think, what most people still complain about when discussing the movie.

This is why I think the movie was doomed to failure regardless of how good it was:

1. We all wanted Episodes 4-6 the way we had them when we were four. We wanted to believe, we wanted to be blown away, and, most of all, we wanted to escape into the fantasy. However, we’ve all grown more cynical and unforgiving in our old age and forgot that when we watch episodes 4-6 we laugh about how cheesy they are…but we forgive them because we love them. Unable to be a child, unwilling to acknowledge we are adults everyone sat in the theatre and complained.

2. We all had a preconceived notion about Darth Vader’s origin story. The books, the fanfiction, the graphic novels, the conversations with friends at three in the morning over coffee—no one wanted to accept a story that was different from what was imagined. No one wanted to reimagine a world that wasn’t technically theirs to begin with. The story, by dent of being mostly original, would never be accepted. I acknowledge that the plotting could and should have been done better, but I still maintain nothing would have been enough.

3. This one is most important: Well adjusted teenagers don’t turn into cosmic serial killers. Everybody loves Darth Vader because he’s the biggest badass on the market. Everybody wanted to see Darth Vader be a badass prelava. What we got was a whiny, overdramatic teenager that couldn’t accept reality or deal with the pressures of life. Could Episode 2 have been better written? Absolutely. Could Anakin Skywalker, realistically, been an ass-kicking James Bond like teenager? Of course not. Darth Vader is, was, always has been inherently weak. His emotions were his doom. That means when he was fifteen, in love, and his mom dies he whines and goes crazy. Nothing else works.

Very few people wanted to accept these things about the story Lucas was telling. Furthermore, because Episode 2 was pretty bad (even I cringe when Anakin compares Padme’s skin to sand) everyone writes off Episode 3. Episode 3 was a masterpiece of tragedy—honestly, I don’t know how you could argue against that, even if personally you don’t like it. The only real weakness I saw was that Anakin shifted from good to evil too quickly. There needed to be a little more attention paid to his fanaticism and how the Emperor played into that. But overall, his passion as his undoing, the slaughtering of the jedi, the Emperor and Yoda fighting, Obi-Won and Anakin fighting…it was all heartbreaking. Oh, there was the “NO!” at the end which was a bad choice—I know what Lucas was going for there, but a show of silent fury would have been a much better option I think.

Going back to Episode 2 for a minute, has anyone ever spent any time with a teenage boy? Have you ever heard a teenage boy try to hit on a girl? It’s painful people. There are bad comparisons, cheesy pick-up lines, and a whole lot of awkward longing looks that translate to “I really wanna touch your boob.” Real life doesn’t always translate to writing well and Lucas erred on the side of too realistic here, but the failure wasn’t because it wouldn’t really be like that. People cringed because how does an intergalactic badass tell a girl he likes her skin because it’s so smooth, not coarse like sand? People forget that even intergalactic badasses are 15 once with too many hormones and not enough game.

And that brings me to my final point—Vader wasn’t evil, not wholly, he was weak. He was too weak to resist the dark side, and he was too weak to embrace evil all the way. That’s why he chooses the Emperor in Episode 3 and is saved by Luke in 6. He loved his family more than anything and that allows for the Rebellion to win before it’s all said and done, but it also means that Darth Vader won’t ever be the biggest, the baddest, or the most evil. It also means that, like all other passionate, out of control teenagers, seeing him in his teen years makes you die a little inside.

And as for Episode 1, it tried to be too much like Jedi. It was fun, it was easy, it was everything it was supposed to be. I was really excited after I saw it in the theatre. But then everyone started hating on it because, frankly, it’s cooler to hate than to love. Us silly cretins just didn’t realize how bad it was. It wasn’t perfect, none of them were, but it was better than a crapload of other movies people say are great (think Titanic) and no worse then many more.

Most importantly, though, they were all Star Wars, and for better or worse that’s all they ever aspired to be. You can love ‘em or hate ‘em, but you can’t deny them their place in the world George Lucas created.

I saw Wanted last night, and there really, seriously, needs to be a discussion about the wisdom of taking your orders from a Loom of Fate. I mean our hero (don’t worry, no spoilers here really) waffles over the decision to do what’s he told for a second, but eventually he decides the Loom knows more than he.

This is simply further proof of why I wouldn’t make a good assassin of fate. You show me the Loom of Fate and I say, “Really? Where do you get the thread? How do you make sure it’s weaving the cloth of fate, or does the cloth not really matter? How do you know you’re interpreting it correctly? What if the first interpreters got it wrong? Is there a Rosetta Loom somewhere you want to tell me about? How do I know this is a good Loom of Fate and not a bad one? Can fate be evil and good?”

I feel like these are all perfectly valid questions and it isn’t too much to expect that one might ask them before following the Loom’s orders. Obviously, the movie progresses, things are more complicated than they seem, but I couldn’t help remarking as the proverbial feces hit the proverbial fan that this is what happens when you take orders from a loom.

And then we have the problems of fate—I like fate, we get along pretty well, but once you start preemptively killing people because fate deems it so we’re into some pretty murky area. For example, let’s say that the person I take orders from goes evil—now fate is going to think that I’m evil because so long as everything stays as it is I will be. But what if I figure it out? Can I not change my destiny? People can be tricked, can they not? So how do we know how savvy fate is? Is it my lack of awareness that has caused me to slip into evil and a danger to mankind, or is it my association with that specific person at that specific time? If it’s the second…well, that’s very malleable and I’ll thank fate not to judge me because of what I might do.

But if names of people only come up after they have committed their first atrocious act (or thirteenth) then I could accept that easier. I see you killed a baby, now I kill you. This is a very simply one-to-one relationship. But I kill you because you might kill the baby—the Loom and I disagree there. Though it does raise that excellent question of would you kill [insert evil dictator’s name here] as a child if you could? And if (very big if) said Loom of Fate really were a Loom of Fate and I could accept its Fateyness, I might be able to. But in order for that to happen we’re back to the earlier situation of proving the merits of taking orders from a Loom of Fate.

The Loom weaves in circles.

(ah! I’m funny)