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schmericaLast night I watched SG-1's "Tin Man", and the more time goes by, the more thinking about it is kind of freaking me out.
Here's the thing: probably the easiest way to freak me out completely in fiction is to start dealing with epistomelogical issues of reality and the self. Who am I? What is real? How do I know I am who I think I am? How do I know the world is what I think it is? How far can I trust my own perceptions of reality?
Which, of course, knowing that presses all my weird buttons, I immediately go and seek it out in fiction. Sane people trapped in Victorian mental asylums, checked. Fictional characters who are self-aware of their fictional state and seek to outwit their author, check. Waking up in asylums and told your experience of your life is a hallucination, check. Having yourself be doubled so there are two original and equal versions of you existing in the same time, check. Realizing you are an inferior cloned copy of the person you thought you were, check. Realizing your friends or family were created recently and your mind was tampered with false memories of their always having existed, check.
Seriously, it freaks me out even more than needles in the eye, and that's saying a lot.
(I have determined that the reason I liked "The Real World" on Friday more than everybody else is probably just because of my terrible fondness for Torri Higginson, though.)
I am waiting for my parents to come and pick me up to take me home. My sister is coming home from her summer on the East Coast with our grandparents tonight, too -- I haven't seen her in months! She sent me an email on Friday squeeing quite loudly and incoherently over the awesomeness of SG-1 "200". Basically she is the cutest baby fangirl ever, and I can't wait to see her again.
Here's the thing: probably the easiest way to freak me out completely in fiction is to start dealing with epistomelogical issues of reality and the self. Who am I? What is real? How do I know I am who I think I am? How do I know the world is what I think it is? How far can I trust my own perceptions of reality?
Which, of course, knowing that presses all my weird buttons, I immediately go and seek it out in fiction. Sane people trapped in Victorian mental asylums, checked. Fictional characters who are self-aware of their fictional state and seek to outwit their author, check. Waking up in asylums and told your experience of your life is a hallucination, check. Having yourself be doubled so there are two original and equal versions of you existing in the same time, check. Realizing you are an inferior cloned copy of the person you thought you were, check. Realizing your friends or family were created recently and your mind was tampered with false memories of their always having existed, check.
Seriously, it freaks me out even more than needles in the eye, and that's saying a lot.
(I have determined that the reason I liked "The Real World" on Friday more than everybody else is probably just because of my terrible fondness for Torri Higginson, though.)
I am waiting for my parents to come and pick me up to take me home. My sister is coming home from her summer on the East Coast with our grandparents tonight, too -- I haven't seen her in months! She sent me an email on Friday squeeing quite loudly and incoherently over the awesomeness of SG-1 "200". Basically she is the cutest baby fangirl ever, and I can't wait to see her again.
