"I'm dead. Really dead. Not in the "there'll be a twist at the end and I'll be saved" kind of way. Just dead."
At least I assumed so otherwise they never would have activated my Stored Intelligence Module.
Dad had been the brains so when he died I had been all too happy to sell out to Graftech. I had paid for the deluxe package and knew that when I died I would be downloaded into my custom android body.
But then had come the stock-market crash of 2241 and all that had changed. I lost virtually everything and now...
'So, what makes you think it is going to flood around here?'
The truck driver chewed gum as he unloaded the bags of cement and several stacks of bricks.
'It's always best to be prepared,' I said, helping to manhandle one of the bags towards the area where my cement mixer stood waiting.
'You got planning permission to build this?' asked the driver, seemingly surprised that I could build this tall concrete construction on the suburban hillside, surrounded as it was with low lying bungalows, elegant lawns and neat gravel drives.
'Not really,' I said, taking out my cheque book...
Dear MIT,
Hi. My name is Jeff. I am six years old. I have a big sister named Jessica. My big sister likes you. She talks about you a lot. I think she really wants you to like her too. But she says she is worried you don't like her. She is worried you will choose someone else over her. Do you not like her? I think she is a great person. She is really smart, and really nice. I like her a lot, and I like when she is happy. I think she will be happy if you tell...
Trivia. I only found out when one of my (many) credit cards was refused. Then a debt collection agency letter arrived. Finally, some landlord of office space told me I was 9 months in arrears and I had two days to remove my stuff.
I repeated the story again. I couldn't remember how many times now, but it was burned into my memory.
"As you said in your statement to the police. Word for word, in fact. Impressive." the Prosecutor slowly clapped, keeping an eye on the Jury, but expertly mindful of annoying the Judge. "Now could you please tell...
The first time I saw Tommy, I knew he was a total douche. I don't allow my sister to date douches; shit — no brother should. That's rule number 2.
Rule number 1, in case you are wondering, is that you don't interfere with your sister's romances. But I take exception with douches.
Of course, there's a perfectly civil way to address his low-life status without resorting to a politically un-savvy term like "douche," which can alienate the polite, women, and my parents equally well, but anyone who knows me will say there ain't a bone of misogyny in this...
"Bitch don't know how to swim. Bitch need to learn how to swim wit da sharks."
"What?" my Grandmother said.
"You see, whatchoo need he'ah is a metafough."
"A what?" she spluttered.
"A metafough!" he insisted.
We weren't in uptown anymore.
"I think what the kind doctor is trying to say is that it helps to use metaphor to explain your condition, Grandma," I said, waxing poetic to his accented jargon.
God love her, but my granny is a racist old bitch. Nobody would be more happy to see her kick that bucket more than me, were it not for...
He pounded his head on the wall to the rhythm of the heavy bass. Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom.
He'd attempted diplomacy already. Repeated knocks on the door had gone unanswered. No wonder: they probably assumed it was the music.
He'd attempted passive-aggressively turning his own music up to the max. Some good that does on a MacBook.
Nor did calling the neighbors help. The RA he'd summoned had joined the party.
3am on a Tuesday morning, in finals week. Deridda wasn't getting any easier. What would Deridda do? Hey thought. WWDD. Which was about the sound his forehead made...
First communion with the devil that is my Daddy. In order to understand, you've got to start at the end and look back over your shoulder into the madness with a mirror, handheld and cracked.
My tombstone reads "murdered" and my family is convinced that is the truth but the truth reads like one novel to some and a short story to others and the weather girl reads it yet again a different way. It was Christmastime in Savannah and he was drunk again, or still, as it were, and there was the gun and then the fight spilled out...
"Wait, so he hit you?" Beneath Sean's cool demeanor, rage had begun to bubble over. I fingered the bruise throbbing beneath the skin of my cheek. "Uh-huh." His eyes narrowed. I placed one hand on his arm. "Relax. It's done." i soothed, but there was no suppressing his rage; even i knew that. It was like putting mentos into a coke bottle and shaking it. eventually, it would explode. he kissed my bruise, gently, just a little brush. "I'll be back." he promised. I tightened my fingers on his arm. "Please, don't go looking for him. it'll justs make things...
We made a little church of our own when we promised to marry. You asked me when I barely understood how to love you, and I'd been innocent so long that I think the moment you told me you loved me you became ever more desperate to snap me up. Three days after the initial declaration came the proposal. I ran away from you and hid.
You're a terrible boy. Everyone says so. I'd heard the talk since the beginning of time and I'd seen the queue of sobbing girls you left behind you. And yet.... you told me loved...