Nameless, For Now.

If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with!

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Y u no learn how to type?!

Chatter’s dictionary :

There = There, their, they’re.

No = no, know.

Ppl = people.

Wen = when.

Lyk = like.

Nyc = nice.

Kewl = cool.

F9 = fine. [took me a LONG time to figure this one out :P]

Hw = how.

Bcuz = because.

B = be, may(be).

Then = then, than. Frequent mistake :(

Ofc = of course.

Oder = other.

Sry = sorry.

Osum = awesome.  [and I was like, “dude, wtf?”]

Rite = rite, write, right.

Ne = any. The most annoying! (ne)way, (ne)thing, etc.

ILY = abbreviation of “I love you”.

Riting = writing.

To = to, too.

kthxbai = compound word, okay + thanks + bye.

. [full stop] = N.E. (non-existent.)

, [comma] = N.E.

Numerical :

1 = I, L.

2 =  2, to, too.

3 = e.

4 = a.  [the hell?]

5 = s. 

8 = rhymer, eg. w8, h8, m8, etc. (wait, hate, mate respectively)

9 = with f9. [fine]

0 = zero, o (the letter.)

U kno, it always makes me angry wen ppl starting typing lyk dis. I can’t explain, bt it just makes me very frustrated.  Y do ppl use so many ridiculous word-forms wen all u hav to do is type a few letters more?

 Ppl think its k to type lyk dis, u no, its all nyc and evrythin. They think there “kewl” if dey type so no one can understand what there saying. Personally, I think it takes too long to understand the rubbish dat they type. Ppl have forgotten hw to express themselves wen there chatting. they don’t even no hw to use words anymore. Obvi, to them its perfectly f9 bcuz they don’t lyk to w8 10 sec. more to type an intelligible sentence. If u want sum1 to read somethin, at least make sure they CAN. :/

Also, while expressing large amounts of joy, its realy not all dat necessary to block out the whole page with exclamation marks!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I think dat 2 are more then enough, don’t u? unless u purposely wanna bug people, ofc.

Before dis stoopid stuff started, the only osum short-forms and evrythin were “lol” and “lmao” and all that. That much at least is understandable. Then ppl started making redundant short-forms fr evrythin, like the way im doin rite nw. Btw, congo if u managed to make it down here understandin evrythin widout slitting your wrists. ^_^

Neway, bcuz of dis, ppl have happily forgotten abt the existence of commas n full stops n they expect oder ppl to understand evrythin properly n all but they don’t realize that there sentences are now to long to understand and by the tym the person has finished deciphering the sentence as a hole they get realy angry n all cuz theres no full stops or commas or nething  and then the sentences suddenly end without any proper grammar n at the end ILY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sry fr dat :P

D3n da oder th1ng is wen ppl use numb3rs n all instead of proper letters. T0 type. d1s is wat mak3s me da m0st angry cuz it5 s0 p4inful to d3c1ph3r. 5ur3, 1f its lyk a cod3 or sumthin I gess its k  but its still really an0yying! One of my frnds told me he gota s3izure wen he red sumthin I rote like dis. I lafed really hard at dat.

Riting lyk dis has skrood up ppls eng. Even wen dey rite in scul, dey mess up there spellings and there grammer (witness  :/ ) and get Ds but they still don c dat dis is y there getting it rong  n den dey complane on FB and all in sik eng.  And you give up trying to fig it out bcuz  ILY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Onestly, I found it realy tuff to rite like dis  bcuz it went agenst evry fibre of my being. It 4lmost dr0ve me 1nsa4n3, but I did it so u no. Mayb its also because im a sadist and I enjoy the site of u slitting your wrists wid frustration and it dosent help that dis is als0 very long n all.

So I sugest dat wen u c sum1 typing like idiot and if u no dat person den plz giv dat person a nice punch and kik from me bcuz I h8 ppl hu type lyk dis pr3tend1ng to b3 dam c00l n all. Den show dem dis and watch in pleasure as dey alit there wrists and jump off a nearby ledge kthxbai ILY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And, on a more serious and intelligible note, for all those of you who went senseless, or otherwise mentally unbalanced and/or insane as a result of reading this here masterpiece, feel free to leave a message. You have my sympathy. :P Also, if you are equally troubled by this, ALSO leave a message. You have my respect :D

Cheerio, and until the next post,

Peace.

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Death.

A considerably wide and interesting topic. Lots of fun. Woot.

Is there so  much to be feared from Death? It has been the crux of nearly every story, the reason behind the making of almost every movie (horror or otherwise) and every sentiment of ours. Death is simply the progression of man from life (which really is very overrated) to… something else.

According to the immortal words of Sirius Black, Death is “quicker and easier than falling asleep”. In this context, the prospect of Death is not actually so frightening. A few poets have also portrayed Death as a gentleman, gallantly receiving individuals and ferrying them across the lands.

We get over-excited when we hear vague phrases like “Killed instantly!”, or “Blood everywhere!” or something equally eerie.  Just stop to think. Had that been you, you wouldn’t really know [or care, really] that you were actually dead.

Excuse me. Of course you wouldn’t.

Personally, I am very interested by Death. The idea of not feeling, not hearing, not knowing, not seeing, not BEING…  fascinates me. No, people, this does not mean I would happily lop off my own head, or maniacally run into a truck or something. So please, disparaging comments apart.

I suppose, to put it in a suitably ambiguous fashion, Death is not what we should be afraid of.  If anything, we should be afraid of the voyage towards Death. That is to say, life. Life is expectation. Expectation of the next experience, whether joyous or sorrowful. Death is simply nothingness.

Maybe what we fear from Death is what we seek to lose from it. Family, friends, memories… we cannot imagine ourselves devoid of them, for what are we without them? The fear of Death [in my opinion] is having to be torn from all that we love in an instant. Yet what comes after that; pain? Sorrow? Regret? What pain do we feel in Death?

I am, to put in bluntly, not afraid of Death. That is to say, I am not unduly bothered by the fact that one day, I will have to face Death. We only cause ourselves unnecessary worry by running away from it. It’s like running  that way  ->  on a conveyer belt that’s moving  <-  that way.

I see Death as a friend I have yet to meet. I do not see him as a haughty, humanoid creature carrying his ever-present scythe, with ripped robes, and a malevolent expression on his face. I see him as a benefactor. Once you’re “gone”, he takes you by the shoulder gently, and leads you to places unknown. Controversial as it may sound, to me, Death and God are not altogether different from each other.

Once again, I am not forcing this belief on anyone, merely stating my opinion on the matter. It is not my intention to cause offence in any manner, and if caused, I apologise for it.

In fact, morbid as it sounds, I actually want to die. Not in a suicidal, or otherwise mentally unstable way, but rather in a curious way.  I’m curious  as to what Death actually feels like[or doesn’t]. The feeling of moving through that tunnel into the “Light”, it’s really got to me. Also, Death would reveal to me what comes after it. Is it a heaven? Is there a God beyond life?

Or is it simply, sadly, nothing?

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Date&#160;: 29th January, 2011. Saturday  [No TV day!]
Topic&#160;: Something that has absolutely nothing to do with Commercial Applications Class.
Sub Topic&#160;: [ Dear Friend’s Idea]&#160;: Things go boom.

A man lies paralysed with fear upon the ground, with a giant arrow speeding towards him. But, it would seem that the aforementioned arrow is actually a Giant Boxing Glove Arrow™.  However, a trip wire lies close to the man, which could somehow save his life. [I know not how – Dear Friend’s Idea again].
A giant is kept as a sentry. His duty is to ensure that the man does not escape. However, he seems bored with his job, and decides to drown his boredom in some good ol’ whisky. The Giant wears a Viking helmet.
An ally of the Man fires a cannonball, hoping to somehow divert the arrow to save his comrade. He fails abysmally. Some Genius [Me] replaced all the explosives with cotton. Naturally, the ball of cotton does not even shift the arrow.
Another ally tries his luck. HIS ball, however, is made of hard, hard&#8230; cotton! [Sorry, folks].
A second giant holds a remote control that will trigger an explosion of unimaginable size. 
Unseen by anyone else, the AGENT of the Giants sneaks up behind one of the cannonball shooters in an attempt to murder him in the most ghastly way known to man. No, sir, it’s not a Man In Black. Contrary to popular belief, it’s not a CIA agent. The agent of the Giants is a monkey. His chosen weapon of destruction is his own metabolic activity. Burps.
[A small note to our readers&#160;: everyone that I have, and will mention  in this particular record of pure, unblemished epicness is wearing Giant Clown Boots™.]
Meanwhile, in his drunken stupor, our Giant sentry breaks one of his many Black Label Whiskies, and the broken bottle rolls under the before-mentioned trip wire, preventing the man’s only chance of survival. And, seemingly out of nowhere,  a man suddenly falls right onto the sentry’s Viking helmet. Further observation reveals that he fell off the Eiffel Tower.
From the above observation, we inferred that the current war is occurring in France. Or so we thought, until we noticed the Eiffel Tower was actually a rocket, being steered and controlled by Mission Control [Washington Monument].
In the ensuing ruckus, the Taj Mahal’s rockets were activated. This ought to be FUN.
Due to the presence of unforeseen circumstances [including the fact that the Giants had to stuff rockets into the Taj Mahal without Shah Jahan ever noticing], something went wrong in the inner mechanisms, and now we have a beautiful specimen of ancient and famous architecture spinning around at a magnificent speed creating a huge tornado [which will one day be starred in a famous apocalypse movie] that will soon destroy all that Me and Dear Friend have strived so very hard to create.
But that’s another story.
In all this commotion and chaos, the Statue of Liberty is awoken. It walks [wearing Giant Clown Boots™ of course!] leaving Giant Footsteps in its wake. It holds a humungous flamethrower [some simpletons still believe it to be a torch] and a fat book labeled “How To Be Tall, Awesome and Green. Like Me.”
A Confused New Yorker sees the Statue actually taking its feet off the mighty pedestal and walking towards the Area. [the Area refers to the unknown place where the humans and the Giants – along with a dubious monkey – are locked in a fierce battle to the death.]
The Confused New Yorker is, of course Confused. And being Confused, he does not realize what exactly he is standing in. Since my sponsors [Giant Clown Boots™ ] forbid me from breaching the subject further, I can only add that was a little something left by our dearest simian friend.
It is time to introduce a new character into this tale. Performing his daily duty of scouting the skies, Goku gets bored [don’t they all] and decides to entertain himself by smoking, drinking and flying – at the same time. He would, no doubt, have been reprimanded severely for drunk flying, had he not collided with a nicely and suitably hard wall. [“Where did that come from?!” I exclaim, smiling. Dear Friend raises his hand and says “Guilty as charged.”]
He falls excellently on a very prickly bed of spikes. The above lines must be depicted by means of Neat and Labeled Diagram.
*Kindly refer to above picture for complete and thorough understanding.*

At this point, an enjoyable [if brief] conversation ensues.
Dear Friend&#160;: Spikes in the air?
              Me  : Spikes on the ground. *draws line*
Dear Friend&#160;: Ground in the air?!
               Me&#160;: Ground on the ground. *draws line under first line*
Meanwhile, a foolhardy human archer tries his luck against a giant. It gets very tiresome to constantly enlighten you about their ridiculous footwear.
Many would speculate, “Ha! The Archer doesn’t stand a chance!” But does their limited power of observation allow them to notice the Giant Banana Peel™ left by another giant, as a prank?  So Dear Friend very astutely adds&#160;: Come ON, You [Me, just by the way],  if the giant slips, he’ll just fall on the Archer and he’ll get smashed anyway!”
…
Oh well. Too bad for him.
On a concluding note, we would like our Dear Readers to know that all our episodes take place in only a few seconds, so, we regret the inconvenience caused, no apocalypse. [Sorry.]
Thanks for reading!   ^_^
Creation courtesy&#160;: Me and Dear Friend.
Drawing courtesy&#160;: Also Me and Dear Friend.
Writing courtesy   : Me.

P.S. Stick Figures For Awesome.

Date : 29th January, 2011. Saturday  [No TV day!]

Topic : Something that has absolutely nothing to do with Commercial Applications Class.

Sub Topic : [ Dear Friend’s Idea] : Things go boom.

A man lies paralysed with fear upon the ground, with a giant arrow speeding towards him. But, it would seem that the aforementioned arrow is actually a Giant Boxing Glove Arrow™.  However, a trip wire lies close to the man, which could somehow save his life. [I know not how – Dear Friend’s Idea again].

A giant is kept as a sentry. His duty is to ensure that the man does not escape. However, he seems bored with his job, and decides to drown his boredom in some good ol’ whisky. The Giant wears a Viking helmet.

An ally of the Man fires a cannonball, hoping to somehow divert the arrow to save his comrade. He fails abysmally. Some Genius [Me] replaced all the explosives with cotton. Naturally, the ball of cotton does not even shift the arrow.

Another ally tries his luck. HIS ball, however, is made of hard, hard… cotton! [Sorry, folks].

A second giant holds a remote control that will trigger an explosion of unimaginable size. 

Unseen by anyone else, the AGENT of the Giants sneaks up behind one of the cannonball shooters in an attempt to murder him in the most ghastly way known to man. No, sir, it’s not a Man In Black. Contrary to popular belief, it’s not a CIA agent. The agent of the Giants is a monkey. His chosen weapon of destruction is his own metabolic activity. Burps.

[A small note to our readers : everyone that I have, and will mention  in this particular record of pure, unblemished epicness is wearing Giant Clown Boots™.]

Meanwhile, in his drunken stupor, our Giant sentry breaks one of his many Black Label Whiskies, and the broken bottle rolls under the before-mentioned trip wire, preventing the man’s only chance of survival. And, seemingly out of nowhere,  a man suddenly falls right onto the sentry’s Viking helmet. Further observation reveals that he fell off the Eiffel Tower.

From the above observation, we inferred that the current war is occurring in France. Or so we thought, until we noticed the Eiffel Tower was actually a rocket, being steered and controlled by Mission Control [Washington Monument].

In the ensuing ruckus, the Taj Mahal’s rockets were activated. This ought to be FUN.

Due to the presence of unforeseen circumstances [including the fact that the Giants had to stuff rockets into the Taj Mahal without Shah Jahan ever noticing], something went wrong in the inner mechanisms, and now we have a beautiful specimen of ancient and famous architecture spinning around at a magnificent speed creating a huge tornado [which will one day be starred in a famous apocalypse movie] that will soon destroy all that Me and Dear Friend have strived so very hard to create.

But that’s another story.

In all this commotion and chaos, the Statue of Liberty is awoken. It walks [wearing Giant Clown Boots™ of course!] leaving Giant Footsteps in its wake. It holds a humungous flamethrower [some simpletons still believe it to be a torch] and a fat book labeled “How To Be Tall, Awesome and Green. Like Me.”

A Confused New Yorker sees the Statue actually taking its feet off the mighty pedestal and walking towards the Area. [the Area refers to the unknown place where the humans and the Giants – along with a dubious monkey – are locked in a fierce battle to the death.]

The Confused New Yorker is, of course Confused. And being Confused, he does not realize what exactly he is standing in. Since my sponsors [Giant Clown Boots™ ] forbid me from breaching the subject further, I can only add that was a little something left by our dearest simian friend.

It is time to introduce a new character into this tale. Performing his daily duty of scouting the skies, Goku gets bored [don’t they all] and decides to entertain himself by smoking, drinking and flying – at the same time. He would, no doubt, have been reprimanded severely for drunk flying, had he not collided with a nicely and suitably hard wall. [“Where did that come from?!” I exclaim, smiling. Dear Friend raises his hand and says “Guilty as charged.”]

He falls excellently on a very prickly bed of spikes. The above lines must be depicted by means of Neat and Labeled Diagram.

*Kindly refer to above picture for complete and thorough understanding.*


At this point, an enjoyable [if brief] conversation ensues.

Dear Friend : Spikes in the air?

              Me  : Spikes on the ground. *draws line*

Dear Friend : Ground in the air?!

               Me : Ground on the ground. *draws line under first line*

Meanwhile, a foolhardy human archer tries his luck against a giant. It gets very tiresome to constantly enlighten you about their ridiculous footwear.

Many would speculate, “Ha! The Archer doesn’t stand a chance!” But does their limited power of observation allow them to notice the Giant Banana Peel™ left by another giant, as a prank So Dear Friend very astutely adds : Come ON, You [Me, just by the way],  if the giant slips, he’ll just fall on the Archer and he’ll get smashed anyway!”

Oh well. Too bad for him.

On a concluding note, we would like our Dear Readers to know that all our episodes take place in only a few seconds, so, we regret the inconvenience caused, no apocalypse. [Sorry.]

Thanks for reading!   ^_^

Creation courtesy : Me and Dear Friend.

Drawing courtesy : Also Me and Dear Friend.

Writing courtesy   : Me.

P.S. Stick Figures For Awesome.

0 notes

Nineteen Years Later, A Sequel, Part One.

Before I start, I would like to say that all characters in this story are copyrighted by J.K. Rowling. This is an unauthorized fan fiction piece, written entirely from my imagination.

Now read on. :D

Nineteen Years Later, A Sequel.

Part One.

“Albus Severus, you were named for two Headmasters of Hogwarts.  One of them was a Slytherin, and he was probably the bravest man I ever knew.”

 But Albus was still full of the fear of being but into Slytherin. His father did not understand. He couldn’t.

“But just say –

“Then Slytherin house would have gained an excellent student, won’t it? But if it really matters to you, the Sorting Hat takes your choice into account.”

No, he was saying that just to reassure him. It couldn’t be true… could it?

“Really?” he asked, half –sceptical, half hopeful.

“It did for me,” said Harry, beaming at the look of growing incredulity of Albus’ face. He had never told James that. He was sensible enough not to tell Lily – what would have followed were several painful weeks of violent tears – the anticipation would have been too much for her.

Albus was so struck by his father’s words, he almost didn’t hear the foghorn of the Hogwarts Express : his ride to the castle, the castle where dream became reality, imagination came alive.

He hopped onto the train, but was so distracted, he tripped. Harry rushed forward, caught Albus by the arm and helped him up. He handed him his trunk and his owl, Pandora. It was only then that his eyes met with his mother’s.

There was deep, soft love in those eyes, which were partially covered by her lush, auburn hair, waving in the light Autumn breeze. The train lurched forward once, and began to move, away… away… 
His parents disappeared from sight.

Albus turned away and was so suddenly [and not altogether  pleasantly] greeted with the sight of several fourth -, fifth -, and sixth-year students, that he nearly fell off the train in surprise. They were evidently considering him some curiosity. He was paralysed for a moment. Eager to be departed from the site, he pushed through the throng, answering offhandedly, the barrage of questions that came flying his way.

“Yes, I am his son –”

“No, you cannot have his autograph –”

“Yes, it’s true, he did –”

He could see James at the end of the corridor, grinning stupidly at him, and only the thought of throttling him gave Albus the will to move further. James, somehow noticing his brother’s swifter progress hastily ran and hid in a compartment. Albus smiled. Just let him wait.

After what seemed like considerably more than an eternity, he was reunited with James [Albus scowled when he saw James, who grinned again] and Rose. With some relief, he sat down.

The seats were extremely comfortable, and Albus was just on the verge of drifting into a very peaceful nap when he was, rather rudely, awoken by a raucous squeal by Pandora.  She, like Albus, had evidently not enjoyed being pulled through a dense population in the sparse corridor of the train.

“Le’ her out fuh a bih, Albuf,” said James, wasting no time stuffing his face with a Chocolate Frog [Albus noticed Wendelin the Weird at the back] attempting to smile – with little success – at Rose, who cried reproachfully, “Stop that, James, it’s repulsive!” ‘

Smiling to himself at his brother’s happy idiocy, Albus lifted the latch to Pandora’s cage,  laughed as she let out a relieved squawk, stretching her wings, gliding around momentarily before perching sentry-like at the  back of Albus’ seat. She pecked at his messy hair playfully.

And slowly, his initial apprehension began to fade. He was off to Hogwarts at last.

All was well.

0 notes

Edward’s Sullen and Bella’s gone.

Vampires were mythical creatures of great power, who fed themselves on the blood of their victims. they were fearsome beasts, and could only be killed when incapacitated by the smell of garlic, and with a silver stake dipped in holy water hammered into their cruel hearts. Their only weakness was their pride in their power.

Notice the subtle past tense.

Today’s “vampire” represents nothing more than a fantasy, a figment of imagination, a direct insult to the once powerful image of a true vampire. They were to be imagined as feral beasts, handsome yet gruesome, charming, yet bloodthirsty [literally]. 

They were not disco balls.

Thanks to a, ahem, certain book, vampires are social creatures, who devote all of their ample time and energy to loving some random humans unconditionally. They are enemies of Werewolves [a true fact, surprising as it is], who, apparently, can change form at will. The full moon to them is nothing but a nice shiny object in the sky, by which pleasant dates with humans [who, of course, they love unconditionally] can be had. Some might say vampires and werewolves are enemies in this here story because they love the same random person.

It is one thing to alter facts to a certain degree to make a story interesting. Base, immovable facts are, admittedly, difficult to elaborate on. But how does one get the notion of making them sparkle in sunlight?

Another interesting thing : Their legs don’t sparkle. Their hands don’t sparkle. Their faces don’t sparkle. For the sake of drama, and of course, tragedy [and also to convince the female population reading this book to continue, please] the hero in question must, very slowly and deliberately, undo his shirt buttons, one by one, and bare his “hot” torso. And THEN he sparkles. Pssh.

My sister read twilight. She even took it with her when she went to the bathroom. 

But don’t judge so quickly! It’s not for the reasons you think. She just didn’t want to be caught unawares when the urge to puke became too great.

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Send in the clones!

Cloning in biology is the process of producing similar populations of genetically identical individuals.

Source : Wikipedia (duh).

That being said, have you ever (fervently) wished that someone could help you (in other words, do) your everyday, dull work, while you have a nice quiet day at the beach? Have you ever wished for that stupid technology to advance fast enough to make a clone, or several? Just imagine! You could have one for the housework, one to do your studying, one to take out the garbage, and you wouldn’t have to lift a finger!

Or would you?

Contrary to popular belief, a clone is NOT a slave. A clone is, to put it simply, YOU. Would you gladly, in full knowledge of your actions (and in good humour, mind you) accept someone’s dirty work, and slog away while he (or she!) is free to do what they like? I think not. If a clone is a “genetically identical individual”, it goes without saying that its attitude is also the same as yours, and therefore its attitude to the given work is also the same is yours.  If you don’t want to do it, there should be no reason why it should. It might as well shove the work on you, while it goes to the beach.  Which kind of defeats the purpose.

Try persuading yourself to do something which you really HATE, like (at the risk of being clichéd) cleaning your room! You wouldn’t do it at gunpoint, but expect someone else (another you, mind) to do it for you? To persuade a clone to do your work, you would have to be a lawyer of extraordinary competence. Which, to put it frankly, some of us just aren’t. Besides, even if you were, so too your clone would be. Two lawyers fighting, each trying to defeat the other, at the deathly punishment of cleaning a room. Such an epic tale.

For the sake of population, and for their sanity, I personally hope cloning is far beyond our abilities. We have enough problems with population as it is, without this adding to it. It will bring PAIN. A Clone is not a mindless numbskull who exists solely to wait upon you hand and foot. It is a being of equal intelligence, and the retort, “I made you, dude,”  frankly, is not going to get you anywhere. Using a clone in any of the above ways is tantamount to slavery, whether the clone does it willingly (unlikely) or not (much more likely). Forcing a living being into servitude, especially a human, is illegal now. Too bad.

Cloning of animals, that way, could be much more profitable. Animals close to extinction (such as tigers, sadly) could be stopped from an ignoble end.  Their numbers could be replenished, at least temporarily, before we decide that they need to be wiped out again. But broadly speaking, the risks of cloning far outweigh the benefits. For humans, that is. For other things, (like trees, maybe, we need more of those :P ) animals and the such-like, cloning could be extremely helpful.

But I am here to speak about the disasters of cloning! So we shall continue with that. :D

The problem with having a legion of clones at your disposal, is that it is similar to having a helper (sorry, I’m a little sensitive to the word servant). Therefore, it needs the basic amenities to ensure its continued survival. In simple words, food, water, shelter, clothing, and electricity. Having an extra person in the house could really screw you up. If you have an extremely large, luxurious house with plenty of extra rooms, not so bad. But heck, my house isn’t that huge, and I’m guessing majority of the people who need clones don’t have mansions either. So where are you going to find one?

There’s the extra problem of food. As  teenager, I inhale food. All sorts of food! Junk food, good food, bad food, wholesome food, etc. Therefore, my clone would also do the same. Buying tons of food, and seeing it all get over in a matter of weeks, could wreak havoc on your monthly bills.

Clones are prone to fatigue as much as we are. We cannot make them do endless amounts of work, just as we cannot ourselves. Making a sort of pact between yourself and a clone could solve a few issues. You could have specific times when the clone gets to relax, and enjoy seeing you slog around the house, or specific days when you do most of the work and give the poor clone a break. The workload would drastically decrease, and it might help you a bit.

And here we are, imagining the clone is like a god, and that whatever it cleans sparkles afterward. Your house does not belong to it, because it didn’t live there, and therefore does not have any fond memories, as such, of that place. It simply exists, and that’s what matters. Even with the case of helpers, at least they have incentive in the form of monthly or weekly salary, which is what makes them come to work every day.  You do not pay a clone, just as your parents don’t pay you for household chores (unless you’re desperately saving for something important, or you’re just a spoiled brat :P ).

A clone has no incentive to work, and even if it is forced to, the work it does might not be as up to the mark as you would like. There are certain things in my house that I like perfect. The kitchen, for example (yes, I enjoy cooking) , I cannot have dirty. My knives must be sharp, my platform must be clean, and my spices organized. In case of my absence, or inability to do the aforementioned,  the clone might treat it as more cleaning, and be shabby with the work, even if it shares my love for the kitchen. In this case, it is better not to be done than done badly.

If you are still keen on keeping a clone, I suppose there isn’t much I can do. You still have to wait, for perhaps fifteen or twenty years (maybe more!) which should help you reflect of the disastrous outcomes of cloning. This will help.

If it didn’t, and you are a lawyer of extraordinary competence, with endless amount of supplies, and a huge house with plenty of  extra rooms, and a spoiled brat, or saving up for something important, a clone is definitely the way to go.


But it’s all or none, so you better think before you give up your cells.  ;)