Head Hunting: A Tale of Teenage Hormones and Magic
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Once upon a time, in the most uneventful suburb you could imagine, lived a teenager named Kevin. Kevin wasn’t just any teenager; he was a card-carrying member of the “Wait Till Marriage Club,” an exclusive organization his parents had unwittingly signed him up for with years of repetitive yet persuasive bedtime stories about unicorns and rainbows only appearing after you exchange vows. Kevin had always believed these tales up until now, but puberty had recently crashed the party in the most spectacularly awkward fashion.
Oh, those hormones! His body felt like it was participating in an eternal carnival, adrenaline rushes, sweats, and other unmentionable embarrassments. The school’s dull brick buildings had suddenly transformed into potential dating castles, and every glance from a girl felt like an invitation to an over-the-top soap opera. Needless to say, Kevin was desperate to keep his sanity.
One rainy Tuesday afternoon, Kevin found himself in the ancient cavern of knowledge—most commonly known as the local library. It smelled like old books and overdue assignments and was the perfect refuge for a hormonally charged teenager needing a distraction.
While meandering through the aisles, he stumbled upon an old, dusty section labeled, "Mystical Oddities". There, lurking among the cobwebbed shelves, was a tome that seemed to glow with mystery: "The Beginner's Guide to Advanced Magic: Volume 1”.
“Well, this looks promising,” muttered Kevin, cracking it open. Flicking through torn and crumbling pages, he found spells that could turn objects to gold, summon beasts, and others more ridiculous like creating infinite cheese sandwiches. But one spell stood out:
"Spell #42: The Separation of the Head"
--Detaches the head from the body and allows the enchanted one to feel and control the head like their own. A perfect spell for two in love, but incredibly impractical for cooking spaghetti.--
Kevin blinked. Then he blinked again. And maybe just once more for good measure. This was genius! If he could just borrow a head here and there, he might figure out how to survive until marriage without going utterly bonkers.
Excited, he decided to test it out. A quick glance around the library showed that Mrs. Henson, the crotchety librarian, was the only one around. Waving his hands as described in the book and fumbling over the arcane syllables, Kevin directed his spell toward Mrs. Henson. To his amazement, her head floated right off and hovered towards him.
“Dear me, I hope this works,” Kevin thought as he delicately caught the now disembodied librarian’s head. He experienced a sudden flood of information: overdue library books, forgotten recipes, and, rather unfortunately, a sharp dislike for teenagers.
Testing the waters, he thought, “Perhaps I could use a little advice on these pressing hormones…”
Mrs. Henson’s head drily responded in his hands, "Oh, grow up and get over yourself, kid."
Well, that was a use of magic gone terribly awry.
Concluding that he needed a different head with a bit more zest and, shall we say, teenage relatability, Kevin reversed the spell in haste and made a beeline out of the library, leaving a very confused Mrs. Henson closing up for the night without her usual grinding complaints.
The next few days were a blur of sneaky head-collecting. There was Tiffany from Geometry class, whose head offered surprisingly insightful tips about skin care but nothing on emotional stability. The school janitor’s head taught him a thing or two about navigating school hallways stealthily. However, his greatest find was Rebecca, the head cheerleader. He learned about a secret stash of candy in the teacher’s lounge, what she thought about every student (including Kevin, who she thought had “cute but unsettlingly eager eyes”), and how the complicated mind of dating and high school socializing worked.
With each head he picked up—figuratively and literally—Kevin empathized and sympathized. He made it through days without derailing into a hormonal wreck. His newfound perspective made him more balanced and strangely popular, though he always kept his magical secret… well, a secret.
Eventually, Kevin became the go-to guy for thoughtful yet uncanny advice. From romance woes to existential teenage dread, his schoolmate’s heads remained firmly attached to their bodies, but their wisdom unfolded like origami around him.
Years later, Kevin wedded his high school sweetheart—one would never guess her contribution to his early magical escapades. As they danced at their wedding, with heads firmly seated on shoulders, he marvelled at how breathtaking it was to finally see that metaphorical post-marital unicorn and rainbow.
And to think it all started with a hormone-derailed teenager in a dusty old library on a rainy afternoon and a spell that was spectacularly impractical for cooking spaghetti.
This story was generated by user bud with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: write a story about a teenager who was taught to save his virginity for marriage, but his puberty hormones are making him desperate. one day at the library he finds an old magic book, and one of the spells he finds one that can remove people's heads and allow the magician to feel and control them like his own.
Response: Once upon a time, in the most uneventful suburb you could imagine, lived a teenager named Kevin. Kevin wasn’t just any teenager; he was a card-carrying member of the “Wait Till Marriage Club,” an exclusive organization his parents had unwittingly signed him up for with years of repetitive yet persuasive bedtime stories about unicorns and rainbows only appearing after you exchange vows. Kevin had always believed these tales up until now, but puberty had recently crashed the party in the most spectacularly awkward fashion. Oh, those hormones! His body felt like it was participating in an eternal carnival, adrenaline rushes, sweats, and other unmentionable embarrassments. The school’s dull brick buildings had suddenly transformed into potential dating castles, and every glance from a girl felt like an invitation to an over-the-top soap opera. Needless to say, Kevin was desperate to keep his sanity. One rainy Tuesday afternoon, Kevin found himself in the ancient cavern of knowledge—most commonly known as the local library. It smelled like old books and overdue assignments and was the perfect refuge for a hormonally charged teenager needing a distraction. While meandering through the aisles, he stumbled upon an old, dusty section labeled, "Mystical Oddities". There, lurking among the cobwebbed shelves, was a tome that seemed to glow with mystery: "The Beginner's Guide to Advanced Magic: Volume 1”. “Well, this looks promising,” muttered Kevin, cracking it open. Flicking through torn and crumbling pages, he found spells that could turn objects to gold, summon beasts, and others more ridiculous like creating infinite cheese sandwiches. But one spell stood out: "Spell #42: The Separation of the Head" --Detaches the head from the body and allows the enchanted one to feel and control the head like their own. A perfect spell for two in love, but incredibly impractical for cooking spaghetti.-- Kevin blinked. Then he blinked again. And maybe just once more for good measure. This was genius! If he could just borrow a head here and there, he might figure out how to survive until marriage without going utterly bonkers. Excited, he decided to test it out. A quick glance around the library showed that Mrs. Henson, the crotchety librarian, was the only one around. Waving his hands as described in the book and fumbling over the arcane syllables, Kevin directed his spell toward Mrs. Henson. To his amazement, her head floated right off and hovered towards him. “Dear me, I hope this works,” Kevin thought as he delicately caught the now disembodied librarian’s head. He experienced a sudden flood of information: overdue library books, forgotten recipes, and, rather unfortunately, a sharp dislike for teenagers. Testing the waters, he thought, “Perhaps I could use a little advice on these pressing hormones…” Mrs. Henson’s head drily responded in his hands, "Oh, grow up and get over yourself, kid." Well, that was a use of magic gone terribly awry. Concluding that he needed a different head with a bit more zest and, shall we say, teenage relatability, Kevin reversed the spell in haste and made a beeline out of the library, leaving a very confused Mrs. Henson closing up for the night without her usual grinding complaints. The next few days were a blur of sneaky head-collecting. There was Tiffany from Geometry class, whose head offered surprisingly insightful tips about skin care but nothing on emotional stability. The school janitor’s head taught him a thing or two about navigating school hallways stealthily. However, his greatest find was Rebecca, the head cheerleader. He learned about a secret stash of candy in the teacher’s lounge, what she thought about every student (including Kevin, who she thought had “cute but unsettlingly eager eyes”), and how the complicated mind of dating and high school socializing worked. With each head he picked up—figuratively and literally—Kevin empathized and sympathized. He made it through days without derailing into a hormonal wreck. His newfound perspective made him more balanced and strangely popular, though he always kept his magical secret… well, a secret. Eventually, Kevin became the go-to guy for thoughtful yet uncanny advice. From romance woes to existential teenage dread, his schoolmate’s heads remained firmly attached to their bodies, but their wisdom unfolded like origami around him. Years later, Kevin wedded his high school sweetheart—one would never guess her contribution to his early magical escapades. As they danced at their wedding, with heads firmly seated on shoulders, he marvelled at how breathtaking it was to finally see that metaphorical post-marital unicorn and rainbow. And to think it all started with a hormone-derailed teenager in a dusty old library on a rainy afternoon and a spell that was spectacularly impractical for cooking spaghetti.
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