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Once upon a time there was a sensible straight line who was hopelessly in love with a dot.
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You're the beginning and the end, the hub, the core and the quintessence he told her tenderly.
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But the frivolous dot wasn't a bit interested, for she only had eyes for a wild and unkempt squiggle who never seemed to have anything on his mind at all.
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They were everywhere together, singing and dancing and frolicking and laughing and laughing and lord knows what else.
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He's so **** and free, so unlimited and full of joy she cried rapturously.
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And you're as stiff as a stick, dull, conventional and repressed, tired and trammelled, subdued, smothered and stifled, squashed, squelched and quenched.
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Why take chances, the line argued, without much conviction.
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I'm dependable, steady, consistent. I know where I'm going. I've got dignity.
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But this was small consolation for the miserable line. Each day he grew more and more morose.
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He stopped eating or sleeping and before long was completely on edge.
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His worried friends noticed how terribly thin and drawn he was and did their best to cheer him up.
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She's not good enough for you. She lacks depth, they all look alike anyway.
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Why don't you find a nice straight line and settle down?
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But he hardly heard a word they said. For anyway he looked at her, she was perfect.
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He saw things in her that no one else could possibly imagine.
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She's more beautiful than any straight line I've ever seen, he sighed wistfully.
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But even allowing for his feelings, this was probably stretching a point.
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And so he spent his time dreaming of the inconstant dot and imagining himself as the forceful figure she was sure to admire.
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The line is a celebrated daredevil.
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The line is a leader in world affairs.
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The line is a fearless law enforcement agent.
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The line is a potent force in the world of art.
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The line is an international sportsman.
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But he soon grew tired of self-deception and decided that perhaps the squiggle might have had the answer after all.
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I lack spontaneity. I must learn to let go, to be free, to express the inner passion in me.
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But it didn't make any difference for no matter how often or how hard he tried, he always ended up the same way.
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He kept trying and failing and trying again until when he had all but given up, he discovered at last that with great concentration and self-control, he was able to change direction and bend wherever he chose.
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So he did and made an angle.
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And then again and made another and then another and then another and then another and then another and then another.
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Hot stuff, he shouted.
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Much impressed with his efforts, and in a wild burst of enthusiasm, set up for half the night, putting on an outrageous display of sides, bends and angles.
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Freedom is not a license for chaos, he observed the next morning.
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Oh, what a head.
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There and then he decided not to squander his talents in cheap exhibitionism.
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For months he practiced in secret.
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Soon he was making squares and triangles, hexagons, parallelograms, rhomboids, polyhedrons, trapezoids, parallel pipins, decagons, petrograms, and an infinite number of other shapes, so complex that he had to letter his sides and angles to keep his place.
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Before long he learned to carefully control ellipses, circles and complex curves, and to express himself in any shape he wished.
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You name it, I'll play it.
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But all his successes meant nothing to him alone, and so off he went to seek the dot once again.
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Oh, for... you again muttered the squiggle in a voice that sounded like bad plumbing. You don't stand a chance.
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But the line was bursting with old love and new confidence, and he was not to be denied. For now he was dazzling.
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Clever.
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Mysterious.
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Versatile.
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Eludite.
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Arrogant.
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Profound.
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Enigmatic.
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Complex.
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And compelling.
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The dot was overwhelmed. She giggled like a squiggle, and didn't know what to do with her hands.
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Then she turned to the squiggle, who had suddenly developed a severe thump.
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"Well?" she inquired, trying to give him every chance.
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The squiggle, taken by surprise, did the best he could.
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"Is that all?" she demanded. "I guess so," replied the miserable squiggle. "Let it, I suppose so. What I mean is I never know how it's going to turn out.
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"Hey, have you heard the one about the two guys who..."
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The dot wondered why she'd never noticed how hairy and coarse he was, how untidy and graceless, and how he mispronounced his L's and picked his E's.
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And suddenly she realized that what she thought was freedom and joy was nothing but anarchy and sloth.
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"You are as meaningless as a melon," she said, coolly. "Undisciplined, unkempt and unaccountable, insignificant, indeterminate, and inadvertent. Out of shape, out of order, out of place, and out of luck."
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With that, she turned to the line and shyly took his arm.
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"Do the one with all the funny curves again, honey," she cooed softly.
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And he did, and soon they did, and lived, if not happily ever after, at least reasonably so.
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