If I could send myself a message through time, exactly one year in the past, here is what I would say: "This would be a good year for that trip to Antarctica that you're always talking about." What a brutal year. I did seven things right. Seven! All year! Everything else, I screwed up. Seriously. I'm not going to list all seven things I did right, although I will say that one was setting a new high score in bowling and another was remembering to bring an umbrella with me when I left for class one day back in August. Also, I got to a bus stop once right as the bus was arriving. Those are 4-6 on the list.
Anyway, is there any clearer evidence that we are living in the future than those Listerine PocketPak breath strips? God damn.
The stage is designed in the image of the modern workplace. A CHARACTER sits at a computer terminal, moping. His CO-WORKER enters.
CO-WORKER: Why are you moping?
CHARACTER: I joined a fantasy Revolutionary War league, and I drafted Cornwallis really high. I figured he was an important general, so he might get me some points, but he just surrendered, and that's like twenty negative points.
CO-WORKER: You should have drafted that guy from The Patriot.
CHARACTER: Man, don't even talk to me about that fake-ass movie shit.
CO-WORKER: Fine. Have fun with your motherfucking surrendering-ass fantasy war team, motherfucker.
The CO-WORKER exits.
CHARACTER: I hate that guy.
Exeunt.
That's an excerpt from an opera I wrote. I'm not going to sing it for you, so don't even ask.