I'm a man from the Great Plains of Canada, who had never written any fiction in his youth. Now, I write eccentric dialogue for some reason--perhaps to relieve stress; I'm not sure.
I write mostly short stories, but I have also accumulated quite a body of fake words and alternative meanings for existing words. I wouldn't mind completing a fake dictionary, but I'm fairly certain I couldn't possibly live long enough. I'd probably be murdered by a gang of lexicographers anyway. "I wonder if many people commit suicide just out of sheer boredom," he said, feeling tired, but slightly playful.
"Possibly," she replied tentatively. "Now, let me guess; you're feeling bored to death."
"Life. Big deal. You breathe in; you breathe out; you breathe in; you breathe out. It's so boring."
"Huh?"
"Sometimes I'll try to vary things a little, you know. I"ll inhale twice and exhale once, or I'll inhale once and exhale twice."
"How? And why?"
"C'mon, you've done that."
"I don't think so. You're focusing too much on bodily functions. I don't think you have enough to do."
"Hey, breathing occupies all of my time, you relatively happy person," he said. His tone was serious, but his words were not.
"Try doing some volunteer work."
"You mean, like, breathe for somebody else? No, machines can do that."
"Quit being such a moron. I know you're smart, and you're bullshitting your head off right now."
"Breathing is all I'm really good at."
"That's not much of a life."
"It sustains me, baby. You can't teach a corpse to do what I do."
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