The really curious thing about living in the future is that we know we're doing it. I dunno if it's the psychological effect or The Year 2000, or America's First Hawaiian President, or smartphones, or Vanuatu slipping beneath the waves, or the Current Zombie Apocalypse, but it seems as if everybody, all of a sudden, is really truly aware that this is The Mythical After Time, baby. And, as predicted, even in the future we still have to take out the garbage.
The S1ngularity always creates as many problems as it resolves, you know?
"It's okay if I die. Just make it a slow, slow, slow death."
On those rare occasions when I drink soda, when I finish a bottle, it makes me miss my spotty dog. (Signy, a rescue Great Dane who shared my home for many years. Alas, like all Great Danes, even her giant heart was insufficient to sustain her life force for long--though she did live to eleven. Here's a picture of her looking like a Gloos, which was her nickname. Here's a couple of her with her life-partner, Marlowe The Cat Too Dumb To Know Fear. And here's one for good measure, of the world's most adorable mastiff, Paladin, while I am missing pets. He was worried because I was fixing his bunny.)
Anyway, Signy would beg for empty soda bottles, you see. She liked to carry them around and make them go "scrunch!"
*I am using this to indicate presumptive titles, the way linguists use it to indicate reconstructed Indo-European words