I can store 6000 books on my e-reader but I can’t fit my sleeping bag back into the sack it came in.
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I still have my watch.. It sits on my wrist like a vestigial organ, though it’s prettier than an appendix.
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I have a little daydream where hackers suddenly need passwords and usernames to get into their bathrooms.
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I don't mean to brag, but I type really fast—way faster than I text. Faster than I think, too, which can be dangerous.
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It’s possible I’m seeing some human characteristics in my iPhone, but only because she has them. I press the button, and asked, “Siri, are you human?” She says, “Close enough.”
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I used to think that the only thing our landline was good for was getting calls from people we refused to give our cellphone numbers to. Then we got rid of it. And now I know what my old-fashioned phone was really good for
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One Friday morning when I was in college, a certain nice young man asked me on a date for that evening. I agreed without hesitation. There was just one problem. Another not-as-nice young man had already asked me out—sort of.
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I knew it. I'm being watched.
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Mr. Butler Saunder says he’s nervous about emailing me because it could cost him his job. I won’t email him back to say so, but I sincerely hope it does.
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