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I always felt like I was doing some kind of magical ritual to summon the internet when I was a kid.

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Some assholes, somewhere: Women are ruining science fiction!

Mary Shelley: Hold my absinthe.

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“I saw my earlier selves as different people, acquaintances I had outgrown. I wondered how I could ever have been some of them.”

― Roger Zelazny, The Courts of Chaos

I always felt like I was doing some kind of magical ritual to summon the internet when I was a kid.

Happy Gay Agenda month, friends. Plan the hell out of your gay shit.

Hey, I’m kinda bored. Let’s summon Art Bell with a Ouija board. Come on. You know it would work.

I’m gonna name my new plant “Aloe-stair Crowley”, I swear to god, don’t make me do this.

James Joyce would not have been a fan of auto-correct.

The more I think about it, the more I regret not having a destination wedding.

I would've sent everyone to Idaho, or some random place like that. And whenever anyone asked why, I would just look at them dead in the face and say "I don't know."

ONE MORE: Dickens would haunt your ass with the Ghost of Christmas Murder.

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Thoreau would drown you in Walden Pond.

Emily Dickinson would find a way to keep you isolated for the rest of your life.

Hunter S. Thompson: WE STOPPED IN BAT COUNTRY!

I think I’m done.

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Shakespeare would probably be kind enough to let you choose your own tragedy.

E.B. White: You’re never, ever stop crying.

Stephen King? Don’t ask me. You’re just plain fucked.

Neil Gaiman would whimsy you to death, then harvest your soul.

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Please stop me from continuing. God help us all.

Ray Bradbury would just sit you down and zealously but poetically ramble on about colonizing Mars for like four hours.

Nathaniel Hawthorne? I hope you like A’s, because a ten ton red one is about to crush you.

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And Byron? He’d mope you to death. And Percy Shelley would drown you.

What, too soon? Too much late-Romantic melodrama and tragedy?

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Ginsberg would obviously howl, shattering glass around him. Kerouac would just run you over with a car.

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I wish that there was a version of Mortal Kombat, except with writers.

Mary Shelley’s finishing move is obvious. So is Poe’s. Philip K. Dick makes you spend the rest of your life questioning whether you exist or not. If you get taken down by James Joyce, you can only speak a confusing but beautiful language.

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hackers.town

A bunch of technomancers in the fediverse. This arcology is for all who wash up upon it's digital shore.