Tonight I told a woman on the internet I wanted to steal a pair of her dirty underwear, to get her DNA, so that later I might clone her. This way, I said, when I'm fifty I'll have a nice, young, 20-year-old girl to keep me company. For some reason she wasn't amused. Of course, by the time I'm fifty, hopefully virtual reality will have been sufficiently augmented so that I won't even need a clone. Masturbation, in the future, will be just like putting an album on the stereo. I'll have to scroll through iTunes for that night's virtual companion, pour over different styles of sex and women as I would genres and artists. It will be glorious.
Ok, enough lewdness. I've been doing a good job of keeping things tame lately. I'm tired and don't have much to say.
Oh, I read a brilliant story by Chekhov on my way home called "A Boring Story."
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