“Fedoras are “for men.” When a woman wears one, it’s meant to be an aberration. The winking transgression—however innocent or innocuous—that’s the whole point.

This seems somewhat defeated when we learn that the first fedora was a woman’s. It was named after the heroine of a 19th-century play—Fédora—who screwed up her love life while happening to wear a hat.”

Don’t be mean on Facebook or the Facebook fairy will suck out your earwax and turn it into an exact replica of you and then that earwax-you will apply for a library card and check out all of the rare books in your branch and never return them and the real you will be slapped with a huge fine and the earwax-you will just laugh and melt away into a pile of leaves.

I have no Mouth, and I must Scream

Harlon Ellison

Limp, the body of Gorrister hung from the pink palette; unsupported—hanging high above us in the computer chamber; and it did not shiver in the chill, oily breeze that blew eternally through the main cavern. The body hung head down, attached to the underside of the palette by the sole of its right foot. It had been drained of blood through a precise incision made from ear to ear under the lantern jaw. There was no blood on the reflective surface of the metal floor. 

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