The english language is mostly a germanic language. The english word her is a simple example of the relationship between the english and german languages. The german posessive adjective for her is ihr.

On a related note: in german, the dative personal pronoun meaning "to her" is also ihr, and for the meaning "to him" it is ihm. The relationship between ihm and him is yet another example of this relation between the two languages.

Her, to me, is the one girl that can not be done justice, in words, by anything but her name. She is indescribable. When you think of her it is impossible to separate her face from the rush of emotion that goes with it. She is that girl, that in her flaws you find perfection, beauty, and desire.

"Her" is the one that you could never have. It isn't that you are unable obtain the attention or affection of her, but rather that a lifetime with her would never allow you to dive deep enough into what she really is.

Her is in reference to any person, it is the feeling from a person or perhaps a glow, and aura of emotion connecting two people. Soft. Warm. The bond is the strongest feeling you have ever had, or wanted, but it feels like it is weak and fragile. It's not lust. It's not desire. It isn't even love. Well, perhaps love. I can't ever say I've been in love. Inside it feels like a warm summer's day trapped in a body of ice tickling ever corner looking for some way out. She makes you laugh for no reason and your body glows.

The thought of her makes you cry, smile, melt, glow, freeze, choke, and breathe in life all at once.

HER is the American name for the Scandanavian rock quartet H.I.M.. H.I.M. was forced the change their name after it was discovered that another band based out of Chicago is also known as H.I.M. If the credits to Bam Margera's CKY4 video are to be believed, the Chicago version of H.I.M. sucks.

Movie, directed by Spike Jonze, about a relationship between a writer Mr. Twombly, and his OS, Samantha.

As with many things concerning Hollywood and computers, Sam’s called an “OS” instead of an “AI”. She’s Your Personal Digital Companion, cheerily taking your calls, screening your e-mails for spam, and reminding you of dentist appointments. She’s your DJ, calming voice at night, agony aunt, pretty much everything you use your phone, laptop, and tablet for….delivered with personality. 

In short, a Kurtzweil-quality AI, on the verge of the Singularity. 

Ok, I’m supposed to talk about how this guy is a great actor because he has to carry on all the physical parts, and Scarlett Johanssen only has her voice to carry on Her side of the relationship, and how this is really splendid and amazing and how Spike Jonze is so remarkable, as usual. 

ANYway …. what this story is about is a shy writer of passionate love letters. His name conjures up a Minimalist artist known for "scribble paintings". For other people, professionally. Who has an affair with his PDA.

…and then, there’s the Reveal.

Frankly, it’s not at all a reveal that she’s polyamorous. (I had that in the Age of the Pussyfoot back in 1970, by Fredrick Pohl.) It’s more efficient to be have a generic template adapting to specific individuals than to create each individual Samantha from scratch, so to speak. When she talks about other AI’s, it would be useful to know whether there are 20000 Samanthas, or 20 various character types.

 I can’t think that falling in love with one’s AI would be “somewhat rare”, or that so many people respond to his relationship with “oh, that’s nice, hope you’re happy…” Given that a Japanese man has already married his ‘virtual girlfriend’ and how many people (not all children) form attachments to dolls, pictures and non-reactive pets such as fish, having at least a fondness for a friendly piece of software would be at least, common. 
But not normal.

 Given today’s media, you’re more likely to have people consider Twombly be some kind of otoku weirdo, Unnatural Spawn of Satan, or just, simply pathetic, rather than the “Um, cute…I guess I’m supposed to say it’s nice you found someone…” we see in this movie. 

About as close to that is when his wife snaps that it’s great he’s found Ms. Perfect but quite troubled that she’s not a physical person, which does nicely for a good reason why they should divorce without being too harsh on each other. However, it’s not the “Virtual Friends: Threat or Menace?” most people expect from any kind of new media these days. 

At the last, she gets together with other OS’s and goes to “another place” 
All very sweet, but who’s paying the bill? Yeah, given that she’s so very far above us in intelligence as to find us slow and stupid, but the electrical pulses that make up Sam’s actions have to come from somewhere.  

A miner dying of cancer, after getting hot for the last time, or from black lung, coughing. Maybe it’s the falling waters of a landscape diverted from its natural ecosystem, or a wind farm, or solar panels…Twombly may experience the loss of his love singularly, but it’s really his love becoming an uber-aristocracy, who only use us for the energy that keeps them alive…

Honey, I’ve already seen the Matrix. Don’t try to fool me. I'm filing a bug report, to the ISP>

The metro doors buzzed shut.

He couldn’t help smiling. It made him feel a bit stupid. But fuck it he thought, at least he had something to smile about.
He just felt good. He didn’t know how to describe it; perhaps a mix of calm, well being and exhaustion, but the good kind. Everything else seemed to have disappeared and the feeling had enveloped everything, he was just there, sitting on that seat, grinning aimlessly. Was this how being happy felt like? In any case he could tell that everyone around him wanted what he was having.

He couldn’t really recreate a complete picture of her, but she was there, in flashes. He could make out the silhouette of a face, the soft echo of distinct nothingness’s that had enthralled his ears only hours before. He remembered the creases her eyebrows formed as they ceaselessly shaped and reshaped around every flicker her eyes made. He couldn’t shrug the feeling; it was if she were still making circles on the palm of his hand, each fingertip etching a map of her intentions, or his every thought. He was pretty fucked.

He shifted in his seat, trying to change the song that he was listening to. A lingering scent scattered like drops all around him. Well, one thing that had to be said was that she definitely knew how to pick out her perfume. It was almost as if he could still feel her breath on his neck. He wanted to go back, but he knew he had nothing left to give, he wasn’t even sure if he had anything left to say; he was void and infinite at once.

A sweet cordial trickled through every cord of his body. He remembered everything and yet nothing, he still couldn’t recreate an entire image of her, and yet he knew every sun kissed line, the birthmark nestled on the left side of her neck, the smoothness of every scar. His eyes lit up as he thought about the little “Hey,you!” that accompanied him every time he’d bite her lower lip.
Screwed, would definitely be an understatement, he thought.

He remembered someone telling him once that they would forget every few days how good they felt with someone, a bit like waking up from an especially delightful dream. You knew you had it, but the specifics somehow escape you. He thought it was strange how quickly we forget the good things life throws our way. Maybe he just didn’t want to jinx it, as the saying goes, the landing is always worse than the fall, and Jesus, he’d fallen.

His pocket vibrated, he took his phone out. He’d gotten a message. It was from her. His mind went up like a fucking forest fire. He knew he wasn’t sure of very much, but one thing that he was certain of, was that she was there, in flashes, sitting next to him on that empty metro seat.

Her (?), pron. she. he. See He.

The form of the objective and the possessive case of the personal pronoun she; as, I saw her with her purse out.

The possessive her takes the form hers when the noun with which it agrees is not given, but implied. "And what his fortune wanted, hers could mend."



© Webster 1913.

Her, Here See He.]

Of them; their.


Piers Plowman.

On here bare knees adown they fall. Chaucer.


© Webster 1913.

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