The Kurzweil Singularity

On Friday I attended a speech by Ray Kurzweil at the 2nd Interdisciplinary Graduate Conference on Consciousness. The speech was, first and foremost, a defense of Kurzweil’s prediction that by the year 2029 technology will be advanced enough to combat the process of aging by modifying our bodies and even our brains so that we can live forever. This obviously raises a number of existential questions as it will drastically change our social dynamic. However, Kurzweil focused on defending his prediction and confronting the dilemmas that arise in our understanding of consciousness.

In support of his thesis, Kurzweil predicts that machines will have human capabilities (in terms of consciousness) because of the exponential growth of technology. The remarkable thing about its expansion is that it is completely predictable. Kurzweil has spent time tracking the advancement of technology by the unit Bits-Per-Dollar, which I interpret to mean the ratio of amount of information to its cost. Without getting into the mathematical aspect of his theory, what is important to recognize is that when the ratio is graphed over time, not only is the growth shown to be exponential, but it reveals how incredibly predictable it is.

One important caveat to notice is that these predictions, while they have been accurate, are not predicting specific devices, inventions, advancements, etc. Rather, they are simply predicting the path of the whole power of technology over time. I will bring this point up later.

Kurzweil’s general epistemology states that knowledge is nothing more than a pattern; and technology has the ability to reproduce these patterns, even in the individual. To Kurzweil people are also nothing more than a pattern. For example, the entire “content” of our bodies (i.e. our cells) changes thousands if not millions of times over our life time. But the only continuity among all these changes is the pattern they follow and our consciousness. Hence, our consciousness must be some kind of pattern that, according to Kurzweil, technology will be able to reproduce.

Issues

There were two issues brought up that I wish to discuss. The first is simply an interesting dilemma, the second, an investigation into the phenomenal experience of a machine with human capability.

Kurzweil introduced a dilemma with the following example. Suppose that we made an immediate copy of Ray, such that every tiny aspect of Ray was copied into another (“separate”) individual we will call Ray 2. Ray 2 is everything Ray is, but he can live forever. But we are not about to turn to Ray and tell him that he is now disposable, for Ray and Ray 2 are still separate entities. There has been no transfer of consciousness to Ray 2, though Ray 2 has consciousness which is empirically identical with that of Ray. So, in some odd way, Ray 2 is not Ray. (Doesn’t this present a problem for what I mentioned above? If we replicate the pattern, as we did with Ray 2, it does not end up with the “same” consciousness. So, consciousness is not a pattern that can be replicated, it would seem).

However, if we were to gradually advance Ray piece by piece—first starting with mechanical limbs—and eventually re-wiring him completely so that he is no longer a biological entity, we could then say that we have maintained Ray’s consciousness. However, this gradual Ray (I will call GRay) is identical with Ray 2, who we just said, is not Ray. Even though it seems more reasonable to assume that GRay is really Ray, the problem persists. I believe that this requires an investigation into the nature of phenomenal identity that transcends the scope of this discussion.

Second, there was a question raised about the phenomenal character of a conscious machine. It seems reasonable to assume that there ought to be a distinction made, when constructing a machine with human cognitive abilities, between the capabilities of consciousness and its characteristics. By “characteristics,” I mean a kind of phenomenal “feel,” such as, what it is to experience seeing the color red or getting a headache.

Kurzweil immediately recognized that the issue is dependent on an interpretation of “qualia,” by which I was impressed. However, he failed to really answer the question. He turned to the philosophy of language in order to explain how, even with biological consciousness, qualia is something that cannot be accounted for. We have been conditioned, he argued, to call certain things ‘red’ no matter the way the object really is; i.e. the problem of red-green color blindness. It was not the answer I expected and, to me, it only further illustrated that consciousness is something so totally out of our comprehension that replicating it seems improbable, even in the face of Kurzweil’s support for the predictive element of the growth of technology that I will touch on next.

Objections

I mentioned before that what Kurzweil is doing is predicting the whole power of technology based on the pattern of exponential growth that has revealed itself over time. However, I suspect that his prediction might be inaccurate because of this. Kurzweil even said that the prediction does not account for individual inventions, advancements, etc. It only follows the ratio of bits of information per dollar. So, how can he predict something so specific from something so broad? If he doesn’t know what precise technology is necessary to create mechanical consciousness how can he say when it will happen? Even if you were to give him the benefit and say that he can, in fact, predict the power of technology into the future, how does he know how far technology must be advanced in order to create the Singularity? Though I’m sure Kurzweil has an answer to these problems, they were not addressed on Friday.

The Agnostic

I want now to tell you, gentlemen, whether you care to hear it or not, why I could not even become an insect. I tell you solemnly, that I have many times tried to become an insect. But I was not equal even to that.

_____


I didn’t vote for Obama. Blasphemy, I know. It’s not that I’m not into change; believe me, I am. Obama’s “Vote For Change” campaign was kind of convincing, I must admit. It did get him elected, after all. And it’s not that I have anything against black people; I’m not so cynical that it makes me racist. I didn’t vote for Obama because I didn’t vote for anyone. Not McCain, and once again, not Ralph Nader—though, if I had voted for anyone it would have been him. I once sat in on a lecture he gave at a university in Massachusetts—I won’t tell you which one, it’s not important. In it he pushed his audience to avoid identifying with one political party so strictly. An open mind is the best mind, he said. When it comes down to it, the foundation of each party’s philosophy lies on something contingent—something which you can only hope is true. So, in a way, to declare yourself a tight-ass Republican, or to be one of those tattoo-wearing, radical-thinking liberals they call Democrats is to commit one of the easiest and worst mistakes any rational human being can ever commit: to believe something as true when you know that it might not be. Socrates noticed this. He let himself be put to death because he believed he was a smarter man if he admitted his ignorance than if he claimed to know something he really didn’t. Now, that’s a real hero.
Picking a president is about as simple as figuring out how to decorate your apartment. I live in a simple basement apartment in a town in Massachusetts—I won’t tell you which one, it’s not important. And when I say simple, I’m not trying to be modest or come up with a clever way of telling you that I’m poor. “Simple” means that my apartment now—as I’ve lived in it for the past 13 years—is just about the same as it was when I moved into it after I graduated from college. Sure, I’ve got a couple pieces of furniture, but the walls are just as white as the day they were painted. I’m not gonna put up any pictures of Elliott Smith or Jack Johnson or Jimmy Page or some other musician who has wasted their life away on drugs. And I’m not gonna set up everything around an entertainment system, I don’t have a favorite television show. I don’t know interior decorating, so I’m not going to pretend to set up my apartment according to a certain style ‘cause that would be the same as making a statement about its value and to neglect the others. It would be ridiculous to pick one because I’d have to try every possible style of interior decoration. I’d have to hire every decorator in the city. Or maybe the country. And then when that’s done I’d have to let someone decorate who isn’t an interior decorator—‘cause that’s a style of its own. Figuring out the truth would just require this infinitely exhausting set of trial and error. And there are way better ways to spend my time. I have food in the fridge. I’ve got my head on my shoulders. I’ve got the essentials; the rest is just fluff.
That’s probably all you need to know about me to understand what I’m about to tell you. This guy stopped me on the street today while I was walking. I apparently didn’t look busy enough for him to realize what an incredible nuisance he was going to be if he interrupted me.
“Excuse me,” he said—like saying it politely makes it any better. I didn’t even say anything back, I just stopped and looked at him.
“Can you help us with something?” he asked. He was standing on the sidewalk next to a white town car that was clearly a rental parked next to the side of the road. His wife was sitting in the passenger seat with the window down holding a travel guide and thumbing through it like it didn’t make any sense at all. She looked like a seven year old trying to understand organic chemistry.
“We are trying to find these two restaurants,” he continued. The guy didn’t even let me say yes or no. No, man. I don’t want to help you and your pre-pubescent, but thanks for the opportunity. “Do you know where Pierre’s Café is?” he asked me.
“I thought you were looking for two restaurants,” I said to the middle-aged ignoramus with a major receding hair line. He probably just shipped his kid off to college and now has all this free time that he doesn’t know what to do with so he hit the road with his wife—who intellectually hasn’t passed the single digits—and now they’re bugging me for somewhere to eat as if they can’t feed themselves without someone holding their hand and walking them through it.
“Pierre’s is only one place,” I said. “And it’s not a restaurant, it’s a café.”
“Right, sorry,” he said, rubbing his hand over his baldness and turning around to his wife. “Honey, what’s the name of the other one?”
“The Pour House,” she said, finally looking up from the chemical formulas disguised as maps and simple directions. She handed Mr. Bald Beer Belly the travel guide and he brought it back over to me, almost slipping on a small patch of ice on the sidewalk. It was the middle of February and it is way too cold in Massachusetts this time of year to be having this kind of conversation outside.
“I don’t need the map,” I told him. “We’re right in between both of them. If you keep going straight on this street you’ll run into Pierre’s. But if you turn right on Chester then the Pour House is on your right just past the elementary school. Maybe you can drop off your wife there.” Except I didn’t say the last sentence, I only thought it in my head.
“Oh, great!” he said. “Did you hear that hun?”
“So which one should we go to then?” she asked. I thought she asked that thing she was married to, but apparently she was asking me. He turned back and they both looked at me and raised an eyebrow perfectly and creepily in sync. Apparently the “fuck off” message that I tried to shoot back with my eyebrows was not clear enough. I sighed, unlocking my shoulders.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Which one is better?” he clarified.
“Well, that just depends, now doesn’t it?” I love answering questions with questions. And just like this guy did to me, I didn’t wait for him to answer before I continued.
“Do you like burgers? Cause that’s what the Pour House is good for,” I said.
“Yeah, that sounds good,” he said.
“It can be pretty pricey there, though,” I added. “You know, table cloths and fancy waiters. If you are looking for a local favorite then you should go to Pierre’s.”
And then the wife piped in. “Let’s go there, honey. I want to go to where the people around here go.” The husband seemed to agree, but he didn’t even know that he didn’t know!
“How do you feel about abortion?” I asked the wife.
“Excuse me?”
“The lady at the counter at Pierre’s has had two,” I said. “And are you ok with tattoos? Cause she’s got three of those and you should be ok with that before she hands over a sandwich to you.”
The couple just looked at each other, gauging one another’s reactions.
“And how do you feel about vegetarians?”
“Our daughter is a vegetarian.”
“Ok good. ‘Cause there will be a lot of them there. A lot of the menu is vegetarian.”
Now they seemed ready to leave me alone. But only now? They could have avoided this all at the beginning if they had just let me walk on by. I guess we’ll call it payback.
“I think we’ll just head on over there then,” the husband said. He started to get in the car.
“Wait!”
He stopped just before getting behind the wheel.
“Are you good tippers?”
“If the service warrants it,” he said.
“Oh. Well, then you should go to the Pour House. Their service is better. And they make plenty of money even without their tips, so they can afford to treat you like dirt.”
“And what about at Pierre’s?” he asked.
“The people that work there really need the money, you know? Even if the service is bad you gotta tip them cause they need it,” I said.
“I don’t want to go somewhere with bad service,” the wife said to her husband.
He nodded his head and said, “Ok, let’s go to the burger joint.”
“It’s not a burger joint,” I said. “It’s a nice restaurant, they are just known for their burgers.”
“Whatever,” he said and got in the car. I walked over to the wife’s open window.
“You have cash on you? ‘Cause the Pour House only has valet parking,” I said.
“Please take your hands off the car,” the husband said.
“What’s the problem?”
“I don’t want you that close to my wife. Let us leave,” he was talking to me through the passenger window but seated at the driver’s seat. His wife just sat with her head against her seat watching the spit fly from our mouths like she was at a tennis match.
“I thought you wanted to go to a local joint,” I said.
“Yeah, honey, I do,” the wife said finally fixing her eyes on her husband.
“Ok we’ll go there.”
“But they don’t take credit cards, so you should have cash no matter where you go, I guess,” I said.
He flipped his hands off the steering wheel and into the air for a second. The look on his face screamed what the fuck do you want me to do! It was really hilarious.
“Just tell me,” he said. “Which one do you like?”
“I mean, they’re both great,” I said. “It just depends on what you want.”
“We told you what we want!” His voice was rising now and his wife seemed a little bit startled.
“Hey,” I said calmly and clearly. “I’m just trying to help you make the best choice.”
“You don’t even know what that is,” he said.
“Then why the hell did you ask me in the first place?”
“I didn’t think it’d be this difficult.”
And that’s the problem with these mother fuckers. They never do.

How to Look Smart in Class

Before you walk into the classroom, pick up a newspaper. Not just any newspaper, and especially not the New York Times. When you walk into class with a copy of the New York Times under your arm you immediately go from looking like a well-rounded individual to a douchebag. It becomes painfully obvious that you are trying too hard. And you don’t even just look like a douchebag now, you sound pretentious too. When you’re sitting in your public relations lecture filled with 200 people and you say, “I think the Tea Party people have a really good point,” it comes out as, “Anyone who is not on my side is an idiot.”

You get to class early because you don’t want to give the wrong impression. Walking in even two minutes late with your chin glued to your chest staring at your cell phone is not going to convince your professor that you are interested in anything other than tweeting and playing solitaire. But doing crosswords are ok. That’s why you get to class early, so you can start the crossword in the newspaper. If it’s too hard, don’t freak out. Just fill in the boxes with whatever words you like, nobody’s going to check.

I know you think you can do the crossword without anyone noticing, but when you get to a four-letter word for intercourse you’re going to laugh to yourself and everyone will realize you’re not paying attention. And then when you see what you’ve done you’ll switch to thinking too hard: your mouth starts to hang open and you have a dazed look on your face that is going to do nothing but make your professor think you’re confused. You might even drool a little bit, at which point you might as well give up.

Now that you’re sitting in your seat with your local newspaper neatly folded open to the crossword page you are ready to shut up. Seriously. Don’t say a word the entire time. It’s better to let people assume you’re an idiot than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.

You’re not going to say anything, but your professor, with his tweed jacket and green slacks, wants people to participate. He doesn’t just want to lecture at people, especially if it’s a small class. This is a sign of a good teacher, despite his inability to dress. But you still need to shut up. Don’t worry about awkward silences; some girl will reveal her ignorance and fill the room with ignorable sounds right before she realizes she forgot to turn her phone off and “Like a Virgin” starts piercing through her backpack.

But then tweedy (that’s your professor, not twitter) is looking at you and wants an answer. Give it to him. Your opinion is being asked of you, it is ok to speak. But offering it up out of nowhere is only going to get you in trouble. Nobody cares that you had this one tiny experience back in middle school that makes you think Holden Caulfield’s trip to New York is unrealistic. Just because you cried your eyes out when you got separated from the group on a class field trip to Boston—not even a real metropolis—doesn’t mean that you’re right.

In fact, most of the time you are wrong. Doctor Tweed Jacket is going to tell you that there are no wrong answers, but he is lying. Yes, even esteemed gentlemen immersed in academia lie. That’s how you become the president of a university. There are wrong answers, pay attention and you’ll find them all the time. “What do you think Mersault was thinking when he shot the arab?” Saying that he confused him for Osama is definitely the wrong answer.

When the girl next to you leans over and asks for the last thing Professor Camus said, it’s ok to tell her, and not just because she has a pair of bunny ears tattooed just above her belt and her breasts are hanging out of her shirt. Rather, you’ve got a great opportunity to show you’ve been paying attention. Slide your notes onto the side of your desk, making her lean over a bit. That way you get to look down her shirt some more. Also, anyone who notices will see that you are the man with the answers. Not only that, you’re the one with the answers that the girl with the big tits wants. Double points and you didn’t have to say a word.

When it gets time for class to end do not move. Your lecturing liar knows that time is just about up, so jamming your notebook into your back pack and zipping it up as loud as possible is only going to irritate him. Sit still and make eye contact with him. If he catches your eye two things happen. First, he sees that you are paying attention when others aren’t. After all, this isn’t just about looking smart to your classmates. You want a good grade. Second, he sees that you are patient. Showing patience tells him that you aren’t quick to jump to conclusions, meaning you have half a brain. It’s a lot easier to give an A to someone you think is smart, than to someone who participated in class but said things like, “I don’t know, like, it just didn’t rub me the right way.”

The S Series

I love everything about guns. The way they push back against you when you fire them, especially if it’s some kind of automatic where the jolting and jumping is constant so your whole body is vibrating in line with the gun—like the two of you together are one machine. I don’t have to use the scope because the gun is a part of me. I just have to look and BANG! If looks could kill you’d be riddled with bullets. And with my legs steadily wobbling up to my gut that is pushing in and out, like a throbbing heart pushing the bullets up to my arms and out through the tip of the gun, what’s not to love?
Guns are an efficient machine, they get the point across better than you could even try to say it with words. Like the way I would tell those Homeowner Association mother fuckers. They tried to tell me I couldn’t cut down the tree in my yard. I don’t want no fuckin tree in my yard.
Johnny says I can do whatever I want with my property, it’s my property. Johnny is good with words. He’s good with words like I am with bullets. He knows just how to point them at the target and hit it with maximum efficiency. Sometimes I wish I could take Johnny with me to their secret meetings so I could have him tell them everything. Like how the tree makes it too cold in my house cause it blocks the sun. And how the dogs always stop to piss on the tree. They piss on my property. With their little tiny fuckin peckers they aim their liquid ammunition and assault my property like they’re taking over. That’s what them dogs are doing anyway. When they pee I mean. They’re just marking their territory. And this is my territory. It’s my property, I can do what I want with it and I don’t want no fuckin dogs taking it over!
I know everything about guns, too. Johnny and I used to go out to the shooting range every Saturday. He had this big ol U-Haul and we would load it up good with all kinds of pieces. Pocket rockets, straps, semis, autos, tommies, cannons, streetsweepers, six-guns, heaters, everything. But nothing was like the Avtomat Kalashnikova. The AK-mother-fuckin-47. The best thing the Russians ever gave us. Well, the only good thing the Russians ever gave us.
Fuck the Russians.
Johnny says the Russians are fuckin idiots cause they don’t know how to speak. Like, vowels are important, Johnny says. Get a fuckin grip, he says. But the AK, man. That’s some real shit. But he had one of the originals, the S series with the folding shoulder stock. That was great. Still is great. When we go out to the range I mean. Johnny didn’t do much shooting. He kind of just sat back and watched, there was always someone else in the stall next to me on both sides, but I used to talk to him like he was there next to me without turning my head. I just kind of talked and he would hear me from where he was sitting behind me. He just watched and told me what I was doing wrong. I’m always doing something wrong.
I’m holding it too loose.
I’m cutting down trees. But it’s my fuckin tree, Johnny says.
Hold your head up, he says.
Don’t bend over like that, Rich, he says.
And don’t bend your knees, he says.
You gotta shoot from where you are, he says, and you can’t do that if your knees are bent and you’re wobbling all over the place like a goddamn tree that’s getting pissed on by a dog. Be sturdy, be strong. Now take ‘em down, he says.
He says it just like it is. He says it and I do it, like his words are actually just mine. He thinks it and I do it. I fire the gun. He uses his words and they come out as bullets. And my body is shaking, it’s all coming out of me so easy. Like I didn’t even have to do anything. Like I just think it and the moving target on the other end starts getting holes in it. I’m punching holes in it with my sharp fuckin bullets out of my sharp fuckin S series Russian killer.
So I’m taking Johnny to see these home owner ass holes. I could walk in there and say things that they won’t understand cause it won’t come out right.
Cause like, there’s no instructions for getting your head in the right position to fire words at them. Like, I can’t hold my brain straight and shoot the words at them from my sturdy, strong position.
But Johnny just knows it. He knows what I’m thinking anyway. I’d come in there and I’d be all,
I don’t want the tree cause I’m cold and the dogs are taking it. And they’d all look at me like I was some kind of insane person. But Johnny could go in there and be all eloquent and shit. And say stuff like,
“I understand your position, but my good friend here is in a predicament and needs your help.” He’d put his hand on my shoulder and I’d nod all friendly and stuff. But I’d keep my mouth shut, just like Johnny said before we came in. Let me do the talkin, he said. Keep your pistol to yourself, he said.
“You see, my friend doesn’t enjoy it when the dogs use his yard as a place to discard his waste. And you, the thoughtful members of the homeowners association ought to be more careful then to let their dogs pee on someone else’s yard. So unless you are going to clean up your act, my good friend here is going to cut down his tree,” Johnny says.
And the fifty people there are sitting there turned around in their seats cause we came in from the back and didn’t wait for our turn to talk. We just jumped right into it. That’s how you win a fight, Johnny says. Never fight fair with a stranger, he says. And they’ve got confused looks on their face, like why we’re speaking out of turn and shit.
And I’m sitting there fiddling with the rocket in my pocket. The little doozy. It’s a nice six-gun. But I let Johnny do the shooting. The shooting with words. Throw it at ‘em Johnny.
“Why don’t you just put a fence around your yard Mr. Glassel,” they say. They ignore Johnny. Like he isn’t even fucking there. Tell ‘em Johnny. Like you said.
It’s my property and I can do what I want with it.
Strap on the folding shoulder stock. I know you got it in you. Give ‘em what you got worked up in your head. Come on Johnny.
But Johnny’s just standing there.
Shoot ‘em Johnny. Why aren’t you telling them.
Tell ‘em Johnny.
Johnny they’re gonna take my fuckin tree.
The dogs.
The dogs are gonna take my fuckin tree. And then it’s the yard.
And then it’s the house.
And then it’s the guns.
And then it’s me.
I’ll shoot the dogs.
I’ll shoot the dogs before they can take the tree.
You take care of the words and I’ll take care of the dogs.
But Johnny doesn’t move.
I didn’t think they invited the fuckin dogs to these fuckin meetings, but I guess they were there all along. Sitting on these bastards’ laps or something, storing up their piss. But now they’re here and they’re running at me. It’s self defense, Johnny.
I gotta shoot the dogs, Johnny. Why didn’t we bring the U-haul?
And I’m looking at the other people. And I’m thinking. And Johnny’s thinking now. He’s not saying anything. He’s just thinking. And I’m thinking. And I’m looking at them. And I’m thinking if looks could kill you’d be filled with bullets.

The Director's Cut

“I think we need to watch it again,” Ellie said. The credits were rolling now and Sean was fast asleep. He only made it through 11 minutes and 27 seconds of the movie.

“Right,” I said. “Not tonight, though. I’m sure it’ll make more sense after you let your mind play with it for a little bit.” I picked up the empty popcorn bowl on the coffee table next to the couch where Sean was sleeping and I took it to the kitchen.

“So, he killed himself?” Ellie asked.

“Well, yeah. But no,” I said. “I know it’s weird. I mean, it makes sense, but it’s not totally explainable.”

Sean made a grumbling noise on the couch. He brushed at his face with his hand like there was something stuck to it that he wanted off and rolled over. I went to grab a blanket from the closet.

“I guess I’ll let Sean sleep here tonight,” I said to myself.

“And I thought that the other guy was his friend.” Ellie was not going to give it up. “So why did he sell him out?”

“Was he sold out? Or did he let him sell him out?”

“I don’t know,” Ellie said. She was still sitting on the floor leaning against the love seat. She stared at the black screen while the little white lines rolled up and under the top of the TV. She was motionless, as if the movie left her paralyzed on the floor with confusion.

“So he did kill himself then!” Ellie said it a little too loudly and Sean jumped a bit. But his eyes never opened and he had no idea what was going on. Nor did he care to know.

“Well, yeah. But no,” I said again. I wiped off the counter in the kitchen and threw the empty wine bottle in the trash. The bread had been sitting out during the whole movie so I wrapped it in saran wrap and put it in the bread box to keep it from getting stale.

“Then let’s watch it again,” Ellie said, whispering this time.

“No,” I said. Ellie was persistent. I loved her curiosity most of the time, but not now. I knew she wasn’t going to give it a rest until she understood everything. “You’re not going to get it tonight,” I tell her.

“So you do understand it! Tell me,” she says. I’ve said too much now and I’m in trouble.

“I never said that. Anyway, don’t you have a chemistry test tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I do. But I won’t be able to study ‘cause this is going to drive me crazy unless I find out the truth,” she said.

Sean was wide awake now. But he was unsure why he woke up to us on the brink of an argument that Ellie was eager to start and I was desperately trying to avoid.

“How much of the movie did I miss?” He asked.

“All of it,” I told him.

“Will you just tell me?” Ellie asked, coming into the kitchen looking frustrated and tired.

“I can’t tell you now,” I said. “It’ll ruin the movie for Sean.” And I’m sure I’ve got her. Sean looked up at the sound of his name but then realized the blanket draped over him.

“How did this get here?” he asked. Ellie ignored him.

“Then let’s watch it again,” she said again.

“No.” I tried to say it more firmly this time.

“I don’t understand - ”

“I know you don’t get it,” I said, my voice rising. “But that’s just something you’re going to have to deal with.”

“No, I mean I don’t understand you. Why won’t you tell me?” She stood in front of me and stared at me like she did at the credits on the TV screen but without letting them gloss over her this time. She studied my eyes intently waiting for me to crack.

“What’s the big deal?” she asked.

I broke eye contact with her but didn’t move. She kept looking and I kept avoiding her glances.

“You’re such a liar,” she finally said. “You don’t know anything.”

“I do. I’ve seen the movie more times than you can even imagine,” I said. “It’s my movie.”

“Then why did you let me watch it if you won’t explain it to me? Just tell me!”

“I don’t want to!” I boomed back at her.

Ellie got quiet again and finally stopped looking for me. Or at me. Whatever.

“You are a liar then,” she said, defeated. “You’re a liar by omission.” And she turned around and headed back to the empty love seat. I followed her with my eyes but stayed in the kitchen.

Sean got up from the couch and folded the blanket. If he had been paying attention to our argument he didn’t show it at all. He just acted like everything was normal.

“I’m gonna go home,” he said. He looked at me and I said,

“Yeah.”

“Ok,” I said.

“Can you give me a ride home,” Ellie asked Sean.

“Sure.”