I assumed the word cupidity had something to do with Cupid, that plump little angel who pierces our hearts arrows of love. But Cupid has a dark side.
Why would I want to live to be 165 in a world where my iPhone doesn’t work and all my friends are dead?
There weren’t enough hours in the day to process my life story, and it spills over into the dark when my dreams should be power washing my brain.
I should have chum controls on my browser with a pop-up box that warns, “Don’t You Have Something Better To Do?”
In the hour between the end of school and the time her parents arrived, we crowded into their kitchen and sucked burned tobacco into our lungs.
Amoebas in sexy grass skirts will soon be doing the hula on TV commercials, calmly wagging their hips to quell our fear of microbes and hypnotize us into buying new and improved products squirming with life.
I know I should fear an algorithm that doesn’t know the difference between rugs and shoes, but I’m addicted to eye candy.