One day, when I am grey and crotchety and nostalgic, I will sit down with my children’s children and tell them stories of simpler times, of happier times. I’ll tell them about the blue skies we once lived under, about iPhones that were not nestled cozily within our frontal lobes, and about how peanut butter was once made of actual peanuts, instead of orphans and caulk. And I’ll tell them a whimsical story about a time when the National Debt Clock in Times Square needed a mere thirteen digits to record the amount of money we owed to other nations.

“Sure, Grandpa,” my platinum blond, telepathic descendants will yawn. “Next you’ll be telling us that there was a time when humanity didn’t live in constant, mortal terror of destruction at the cybernetically enhanced hands of Pacman Jones.”

“No, children,” I will sigh, my head bowed in sorrow for the thousands lost the night Jones levelled poor, defenseless Tallahassee. “No. Twas always thus.”

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