signs

The jetpack thing is something people from my generation (generation old) get pissed about. We grew up at the Space Shuttle end of the space race and we were promised jet packs not later than the dawn of the 21st century. We were also promised cool geodesic housing, infinite cheap energy, world peace, a clean planet, and water beds.

I don't even know why I'm trying to write something for this space right now. That sentence you just read? I had to correct four typos before I got to the end of writing it.

There's a little prompt on my interface, it says, "Enter your content here." Which reminds me of an encounter I had with someone in the first week or two of the WGA strike (Day 121 in the house!).

Well, for one thing, it's Bastille Day! Take that, fucking Monarchists!

The Prince was still in the commode, and Dudley Lane was wondering if he shouldn’t get up and check on the boy.

General Jack was yelling for her. What did the boy want now? He’d had some troubling thought no doubt. That was the usual reason he’d be needing her.

“What the hell is the man doing out there? Etta, come see this. Do you see what I’m looking at? Etta?”

Tote Sharpe would be damn fucked if he would allow another Lane to rule over this great land. No one could tell him that the reign of Malvern had been anything but a bit of Lane puppetry.

The Queen could hear his voice, so close and low in her ear, over and over saying the same thing, "Silly woman, you must stop now being so silly." But she couldn’t stop.

The Queen was screaming again. Well, perhaps more accurate to say that the Queen was screaming still.

Theo was drunk in a whorehouse when he got word that his father was dead.

Pillory agents were everywhere. Yancy could smell them. The waxy, newly minted reek of them was thick, turning her stomach. She seen the insides of one of them once. Back when she'd run the cracked cement of the river with Lack Luster and Envy Phenis.