"If you give George Lukács any taste at all, immediately become the Deathstar." — Old Klingon Proverb
There was no nice way to put it: Harry James Potter-Yudkowsky was half Potter, half Yudkowsky. Harry just didn’t fit in. It wasn't that he lacked humanity. It was just that no one else knew (P)Many_Worlds, (P)singularity, or (P)their_special_insight_into_the_true_beautiful_Bayesian_fractally_recursive_nature_of_reality. Other people were roles—and how shall an actor, an agent, relate to those who are merely what they are, merely their roles? Merely their roles, without pretext or irony? How shall the PC fuck with the NPCs? Harry James Potter-Yudkowsky oft asked himself this question, but his 11-year-old mind lacked the g to grasp the answer. For if you are to draw any moral from this tale, godforsaken readers, the moral you must draw is this: P!=NP.
One night Harry Potter-Yudkowsky was outside, pretending to be Keats, staring at the stars and the incomprehensibly vast distances between them, pondering his own infinite significance in the face of such an overwhelming sea of stupidity, when an owl dropped a letter directly on his head, winking slyly. “You’re a wizard,” said the letter, while the owl watched, increasingly gloatingly, “and we strongly suggest you attend our school, which goes by the name Hogwarts. 'Because we’re sexy and you know it.’”
Harry pondered this for five seconds. “Curse the stars!, literally curse them!, Abra Kadabra!, for I must admit what I always knew in my heart to be true,” lamented Harry. “This is fanfic.”
And so, as they'd been furiously engaged in for months, the divers models of Harry Potter-Yudkowsky gathered dust. In layman’s terms...
Harry didn’t update at all.
(To be fair, the author was drunk.)
Next chapter: "Analyzing the Fuck out of an Owl"