I can't be handshaky-shaky clever, mysteriously suicidal, dramatically depressed or supremely cynical and worldly wise - all the reigning female prototypes living in metros. I can't seem to fit into any of those moulds. What I excel in is conflict diffusion and inducing feelings of euphoria and it seems to come naturally.

Argument between Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader
Why do you bother me? Go to Hell!
I am your destiny. Can't you tell?
You're not my father. Eat my shorts!
Come to the dark side. Feel the force!
– Stephen Fry, The ode less travelled

Epistle
How curious your last letter was! Well-intentioned, concise, containing all the elements that appear to make up what passes among certain reference groups as a communicative effect, yet tinged throughout by what Jean-Paul Sartre is so fond of referring to as "nothingness."
– Woody Allen, Getting Even

Out of Sync. Feeling like Joseph's coat. The bastard soul. Out of Sync. Falling in the abyss of the generation gap, with nary a foothold on either bank. Flat, smack down, legs akimbo, groin touching the floor. Out of Sync. The awkward space between a handshake and a hug. Noses banging on your first kiss. Out of Sync. Turning up in jeans on the red carpet. The quadruple boobs syndrome. The name tattoo of your ex. Out of Sync. The scratched DVD, the burnt popcorn, the flat beer, the lumpy couch. Out of Sync. The black wedding dress. Clowns at a funeral. The thirteenth faerie. Doom spelled by skewed geometry. Out of Sync