New Document (47).txt

Insightful. Inciteful. I like those two words. One makes you think, the other makes you provoked.

I play with language. I like it’s texture. I get irrational when people use language lazily. Irrationally angry? No, irrational. Big difference. I am precise in my speech. Insightful. Inciteful. There’s no such word as inciteful. There is now. An autistic brain thinking about language, “that’s cool, what else can it do?”

“What is the plural of Dormouse?” asked Alice.

“Why, that’s as plain as the smile on a cat, it’s Dormices of course! How utterly absurd!” replied Hatter.

“That is quite ridiculous. Dormouse is his name. You cannot have him suddenly change his name to Dormices whenever his brother shows up.” stated March Hare emphatically.

“Quite ridiculous” agreed no Alice ever.

“And don’t forget the apostrophe.” exclaimed the Hatter. “More tea by the way?”

“Apostrophe?” asked Alice bewildered.

“Yes,” stated the Hatter haphazardly pouring cold tea, “every Dormice must have an apostrophe, it is how you know something belongs to him. Sandwich?”

Language isn’t just a tool, it’s a medium to manipulate, stretch, and challenge.

Lazy language is a waste of potential—every word has weight, texture, and consequence. If it doesn’t carry meaning, provoke thought, or at least amuse, why bother?

I carry an apostrophe with me, so that people know I own the concept.

Possessive, not just in grammar, but in thought.

Don’t just use language—claim it, shape it, and force it to acknowledge its own absurdity.

The apostrophe isn’t just punctuation—it’s proof of ownership.

“Off with their heeds!” screamed the Red Queen.

“Don’t you mean heads?” asked Alice.

“I know what I meant, and I want them off!” stated the Queen.

Perfect linguistic chaos—where a mistake isn’t a mistake, it’s a demand.

The Red Queen isn’t wrong—she’s authoritative in her absurdity. Language bends to her will, not the other way around.

That’s the essence of playful precision—words are both rules and rebellion, depending on who wields them.

“Whilst they are figuring out where the heed is located, shall we talk about penguins?” asked the Hatter. “That’s a non-sequitur by the way.”

Alice furrowed her brow, “No it isn’t.”

“It could be!” said the Hatter.

“Just because you say something is true, doesn’t make it so!” Alice said, rather exasperated.

“Yes, it does, we’re not talking about prime numbers in Hilbert space here. The definition of a non-sequitur doesn’t require a mathematical proof to back up my claim.”

“Hilbert space and prime numbers don’t even relate to each other!” Alice said, her voice rising, “Wait, how do I know that?”

“Not yet they don’t, but one day they might, or will, or have, it really depends on which direction you’re coming from.” explained the Hatter. “From one direction this is a sandwich!” she held up a sandwich, “and from the other a cold cup of tea. Would you like some more by the way?”

Alice stared at the Mad Hatter, “Why are you female?”

“Because I want to be?” said the Hatter, slightly puzzled at his own question.

“Now you’re male. Now female. Stop it! It’s confusing.” snapped Alice.

“Then stop walking around me and I’ll stay the same gender!” said the Hatter.

Non-sequitur as both assertion and reality.

Mathematical nonsense that might one day be true.

Gender as a function of observer position.

Language, physics, and identity as fluid constructs, all wrapped in absurdist dialogue that dares the reader to argue with it.

But the real question is, was it a non-sequitur? Perhaps it was, and Alice is wrong? Perhaps it wasn’t and the hatter lied? Perhaps the hatter wasn’t lying but also wasn’t wrong?

Maybe the statement was a non-sequitur when first spoken, but became relevant in hindsight. Maybe Alice is wrong, not because the Hatter was right, but because the premise itself was unstable.

Or maybe, just maybe, “non-sequitur” is a social construct, and penguins were always relevant.

“Do you have a reservation?” asked the penguin.

“Why is there a penguin here asking me if I have a reservation?” asked Alice.

“So we can drink language of course! It’s a very formal affair. You can’t swim in grammar without a reservation. It would lead to chaos!” explained the Hatter.

Maybe the real chaos isn’t swimming in grammar without a reservation—maybe the true horror is realizing you need one in the first place.

Lewis Carroll right now is either spinning in his (or maybe her, who is to say?) grave, or wondering why I am stood at my keyboard at 1AM in the morning debating about how cold the punctuation is before I dive in.

If the punctuation is cold, does that mean semicolons require wetsuits?

Does an Oxford comma float or sink?

Is a question mark more buoyant than an exclamation point, or does enthusiasm displace more water?

“Eureka!” screamed Plato, hauling his naked body out of the punctuation.

Alice averted her gaze, “Wasn’t it Archimedes?”

“That hack?” opined Plato. “Besides, I wasn’t testing displacement theory, I was diving for a semi-colon, they stick to the bottom of the pool, but instead found an exclamation point that someone dropped, I’m wearing it now, it’s mine. See?”

Alice peeked through her fingers at the strategically placed concept of an exclamation point covering Plato’s dangling participle.

Did Plato steal Archimedes’ catchphrase, or was it public domain?

Is punctuation something to be mined, claimed, and worn?

If a philosopher declares ownership of an exclamation point, does it change the emphasis of reality itself?

The thing is, when we discuss language, words, things, we think in rigid ways. Strunk and White, smoking a doobie behind the bike shed at school, giggling inanely, “And then… and then… we should write the five different uses of the semi-colon!” Strunk giggled. White guffawed. “Wait! Wait! I need to add a rule, between number three and four! A sub-clause. 3a. In the event of a previous sentence containing a Plato-vian exclamation point…“

Every rule was, at some point, just a suggestion that someone insisted upon hard enough. And the only difference between a typo and a new rule is whether enough people decide to let it slide.

“I do detest and loathe these new slang words and mispronunciations the kids are using these days.” opined the rabbit.

“Why?” asked Alice.

“They are made up of course! Just new noises to make with your mouth!” decried the rabbit.

“And so are detest and loathe and slang and kids.” pointed out the Hatter. “Even rabbit.”

What is language if not an ongoing joke where yesterday’s mistakes become today’s rules?

All new languages evolve from other languages. Regional pronunciations, family words, made up words to label a thing someone just handed you that you haven’t the foggiest how to use but is in imminent danger of removing two fingers or having an eye out.

Language isn’t preserved in stone, it’s a rolling, chaotic, jury-rigged contraption that adapts to necessity.

Dialects emerge because some uncle refused to pronounce “chimney” correctly for three generations.

Slang forms when someone needs a faster way to say “that thing that removed Uncle Harold’s eye because he wasn’t using his safety squints.”

People act as though English is a carefully curated museum exhibit, instead of a Frankensteinian amalgamation of theft, laziness, and drunken accidents.

“Frankensteinian amalgamation?!? One of those isn’t even in the spell checker! How dare you make up such a thing!”

Frankensteinian – because “monstrous” doesn’t capture the delightful, patchwork horror of linguistic evolution.

Amalgamation – because English is a stolen loot box of words, duct-taped together with grammar rules no one actually follows.

The spell checker doesn’t recognize it? Well, that’s its problem, not mine.

Me, looking at the spell checker, “That sounds like a you problem.”

The spellchecker furrowed its brow. “But it doesn’t exist.”

“And yet you are a concept and just furrowed your brow in thought.” I countered.

The paradox—if something must exist to be wrong, then the act of questioning its existence proves it’s real.

The spellchecker, now caught in an existential crisis, slowly highlights itself in red.

“Do you need to use the restroom?” asked Alice, watching the spellchecker turn bright red.

“Just a touch of indignation.” replied the spellchecker.

Alice looked at the title of the document, “New_Document(47).txt? That’s a strange name.”

"”New_Document(47).txt” – because naming is hard, and sleep deprivation makes “I’ll rename it later” seem like a valid strategy.” said the rabbit. “Also, double-quotes inside of double-quotes breaks the fourth wall.”

“New_Document(47).txt? Haven’t you heard of version control?” asked the Hatter.

“Version control happens to other people.” replied the Author.

“How do you even know which one is the latest version?!?” asked Alice.

“Think of each one as a different timeline. In this one, someone moved a vase. In that one, Plato refuses to hand over the only exclamation point in existence. It currently hangs in the Loo.”

Alice blinked. “The Louvre?”

The rabbit shook its head. “No, the Loo. It’s a very exclusive gallery. Only has seating for one.”

Alice stared at the growing pile of New_Document(n).txt files. “This is madness.”

The spellchecker, still recovering from its earlier crisis, muttered, “Schadenfreude’s draft.”

Alice tilted her head, “Schadenfreude? He wasn’t a person, was he?”

“I take delete in the thought that the document is both backed up and not backed up at the same time.” replied the spellchecker.

Alice frowned. “You mean ‘delight’ in the thought?’“

The spellchecker coughed. “No, ‘delete.’ It’s a pun. You wouldn’t understand.”

Alice narrowed her eyes. “Did you just autocorrect my comprehension?”

The spellchecker adjusted its glasses, which were also a metaphor. “If you can’t grasp the brilliance of Schadenfreude’s draft, perhaps you should enable suggestions mode.”

The spellchecker got up, left an Oxford comma under the plate for its part of the bill. “Thank you for the loan.” It said to the Hatter.

“Will that cover your share?” asked the rabbit apprehensively.

The spellchecker shrugged. “It’s more than most people leave.”

Alice picked up the comma, turning it over in her fingers. “Why do you even need to pay? You’re not real.”

The spellchecker adjusted the metaphor of a tie. “It’s a matter of principal.”

The rabbit, ears twitching, glanced at the Oxford comma suspiciously. “I don’t trust it. Every time I see one, someone starts an argument, or a disagreement, or a disagreement and an argument.”

Alice sighed. “Well, we wouldn’t want any misunderstandings—”

The spellchecker gasped audibly. “Did you just imply I’m optional? I’ve seen things…“

Alice raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

The spellchecker shuddered. “Chaos. People accidentally bringing Uncle Jack and his horse’s dignity into question with idle use of punctuation.”

The rabbit pushed back its chair. “I refuse to take part in this conversation.”

The spellchecker tapped a spare menu thoughtfully. “Then I suppose you won’t be ordering the side of toast and orange juice with scrambled eggs.”

“Without the comma, does orange juice come with scrambled eggs? Or are they on the side like a salad dressing?” asked Alice.

The rabbit shoved the menu away. “This is why I only order tea, or coffee, sometimes, with toast.”

Alice sighed. “All those commas did not sound at all necessary.”

The Hatter smirked. “And yet, even now, you’re wondering if it comes with milk, sugar, or existential regret. I’m ready for swimming. Anyone?”

“At least I know they are not exclusive of each other thanks to the payment the spellchecker left under the plate.” stated Alice.

“We need the right attire—we can’t all be Plato walking around wearing the only exclamation point in existence. You need something that keeps all the plumbing out of site. No dangling participles allowed.” stated the Hatter. She jumped into the grammar, feet first, still fully clothed. She grasped at an Oxford comma that lazily floated by her. “Are you coming in or would you rather drown in ambiguity?”

The rabbit adjusted its swim cap. “I refuse to engage in a pool where the rules of syntax are barely holding the meaning together.”

Alice peered over the edge of the grammatical abyss. “How deep is it?”

The rabbit squinted at the shimmering punctuation below. “That depends entirely on whether you’re using American English or British English.”

The Hatter grinned. “I assure you, in British English, it goes in much deeper.”

Alice narrowed her eyes. “That sounded suspiciously like innuendo.”

The spellchecker nudged the Oxford comma bobbing at the surface. “You’d be amazed how much meaning can shift depending on how you slip it in.” The spellchecker was still fixated on the Oxford comma.