My niece texted me, "Yum asap," begging me to invite her to dinner. In numerical globish the absence of a final "?" indicates that we are in the order of the categorical imperative.
She works – a lot – in an agile unicorn that fiddles with our data to improve online ad targeting. Heat pumps and hearing aids in our emails, that's her. The spots for funeral conventions that salvage our kitten videos too. Her life coach once taught her that "uncle is the coolest dad," so she takes advantage of our one-on-one meals to confide in me and empty her returnable cotton bag.
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By mutual agreement, as the boomer responsible for the end of the world and the disappearance of dolphins (for a long time, I sipped my mint diabolos with a plastic straw), it is always me who pays. As compensation, she shows me the latest finds in her box.
Tonight, she is excited about the new project that her...
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